-AUTHOR- OF 
BUT-YCT-A-WOMAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


WIND   OF  DESTINY 


BY 


ARTHUR   SHERBURNE  HARDY 

AUTHOR  OF   "BUT  YET  A  WOMAN" 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1887 


Copyright,  1886, 
BY  ARTHUR  SHEKBURNE  HARDY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Tht  Riverside  PrtM, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  O.  Hougbton  &  Oo. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

They  who  believe  that  they  can 
speak,  or  keep  silence,  in  a  word, 
act,  in  virtue  of  a  free  decision  of 
the  soul,  dream  with  their  eyea 
open,  —  SPINOZA. 


ALL  the  day  long  the  corn  had  been  yellowing 
in  the  summer's  sun.  The  hills  of  Ashurst  were 
barely  visible  through  the  haze ;  even  the  river 
seemed  asleep. 

Behind  the  house  a  path  led  along  the  low, 
rambling  wall,  overgrown  with  bushes ;  a  fringe 
of  sumach,  among  whose  red  fruit  the  clematis 
trailed  in  lines  of  smoke-like  bloom.  At  the  end 
of  the  path  a  few  tall  pines  overtopped  the  bank, 
throwing  long  shadows  upon  the  slender  sedges 
and  pale  green  grass  that  ventured  out  a  little 
way  from  the  shore.  Checked  by  the  curve  at 
this  point,  the  river  rested  here  a  moment,  its 
wide  expanse  of  luminous  waters  unbroken  by 
a  ripple.  Only  by  gazing  attentively  could  one 
see  the  farther  shore,  where  a  boat  crept  slowly 
along  the  shadow  line,  its  oars  flashing  now  and 


2  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

then  in  the  sunlight,  like  the  dripping  wings  of 
a  water-fowl. 

Under  the  pines  a  seat  and  table,  covered  by 
a  lattice,  constituted  what  Schonberg  called  his 
tea-house. 

Schonberg  himself  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  his  legs  wide  apart,  his  pipe  in  one  hand, 
the  other  thrust  to  the  elbow  in  the  capacious 
pocket  of  a  dressing-gown  of  faded  yellow,  which 
hung  to  his  heels.  A  fringe  of  white  hair  strug 
gled  from  under  the  rim  of  his  black  skull-cap, 
and  over  his  bright  gray  eyes  pushed  heavy  eye 
brows  which,  with  the  strong  lines  of  his  face, 
gave  him  a  grim  aspect.  But  these  lines  were 
singularly  mobile,  especially  about  the  mouth, 
and  could  soften  with  his  thought,  even  to  solici 
tude. 

One  who,  attracted  by  this  lonely  figure  on 
the  bank  of  Ashurst's  river,  should  go  nearer  to 
examine  the  face  might  discover  in  its  grim  ex 
pression  a  contempt  for  the  casualties  of  life ; 
for  Schonberg  prided  himself  upon  an  inner  life, 
unaffected  by  the  storms  which  beat  about  his 
personality.  And  there  was,  in  truth,  in  his  na 
ture  a  solitary  summit,  lifted  above  mutation  and 
tides.  Speculation  had  busied  itself  about  this 
man.  the  more  so  because  of  the  solitude  he  car 
ried  with  him.  It  is  not  necessary  to  have  taken 
a  city  to  excite  curiosity,  or  to  become  worthy  the 


THE   WIND    OF  DESTINY.  3 

pen  of  the  biographer.  Biographer !  One  can 
almost  see  his  eyes  take  fire  at  the  word.  For 
what  is  more  presumptuous  than  to  write  the  his 
tory  of  a  man  ?  Trace  the  red  and  the  black 
drops  to  the  veins  of  his  ancestors,  set  his  por 
trait  over  against  the  title-page,  strand  him  in  a 
universe  of  self-seekers,  catalogue  his  tastes,  de 
scribe  his  habits,  hoard  up  the  meagre  incidents, 
—  after  all,  the  man  escapes  you,  hid  within 
that  zone  of  infinite  repulsion  which  surrounds 
the  soul  as  it  does  the  atom. 


n. 


Friendships  are  not  always  formed  on  the 
principle  of  the  proverb,  for  certainly  Schonberg 
and  Fleming  were  not  of  a  feather.  Theirs  had 
begun  in  their  student  days  at  Paris,  —  those 
days  when  ambition  has  not  yet  been  harassed 
by  the  whip  of  necessity,  and  has  not  yet  known 
defeat.  For  what  matter  those  defeats  of  child 
hood  when  hope,  not  yet  tired,  reforms  its  vast 
projects  and  summons  new  armies? 

The  young  American  had  first  met  his  friend 
on  the  stairway  of  their  attic  chambers,  where  to 
Harold,  who  intimated  that  neighbors  ought  to 
be  good  company,  Schonberg  had  replied  that 
he  did  not  improve  upon  acquaintance.  His 


4  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

dress  alone  might  have  attracted  the  attention  of 
an  artist ;  but  it  was  so  dominated  by  his  per 
sonality  that,  when  Harold  attempted  to  repro 
duce  it  for  the  benefit  of  his  comrades  in  the 
atelier  of  the  Beaux  Arts,  he  discovered  he  was 
drawing  a  man,  and  not  a  costume. 

They  often  found  themselves  together  on  the 
imperials  of  the  omnibus  crossing  the  Pont  St. 
Michel :  Harold  on  the  way  to  the  Palais  des 
Beaux  Arts,  Schonberg  to  the  dingy  lecture-room 
of  the  Sorbonne.  The  fact  that  they  were  both 
—  the  one  in  art,  the  other  in  philosophy  —  un 
der  the  chiefs  of  the  eclectic  school  furnished 
them  a  theme  for  conversation  on  their  morning 
rides.  In  spite  of  Schonberg's  discouraging  re 
ception  of  his  offer  of  friendship,  Harold,  later 
on,  abandoned  his  cafe  for  that  of  his  new  ac 
quaintance,  and  they  began  to  exchange  visits  in 
their  attic  quarters.  This  comradeship  ripened 
slowly  into  friendship,  —  a  friendship  to  whose 
formation  each  brought  very  different  material. 

Harold  was  an  enthusiast,  Schonberg  a  neu 
tral,  —  intellectually,  for  the  heart  always  takes 
sides.  Harold  went  into  raptures  over  his  mas 
ter,  Schonberg  called  his  a  philosophical  zero. 

"  You  and  I,"  he  said  one  day,  contemptuously, 
"  are  types  of  eclecticism.  I  shall  perish  like 
the  donkey,  between  the  trough  and  the  manger, 
of  starvation  "  — 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  5 

"  And  I  ?  "  laughed  Harold. 

"  You  ?  You  will  take  the  best  dish  from  every 
table,  and  die  of  gluttony." 

Neither  knew  the  value  of  money,  and  each 
betrayed  his  ignorance  in  his  own  fashion,  — 
Harold  by  throwing  it  away,  Schonberg  by  not 
knowing  what  to  do  with  it. 

If  knowledge  of  life  consists  in  that  wide  ex 
perience  which  weakens  convictions,  rather  than 
in  the  deep  which  strengthens  them,  Harold 
knew  more  of  it  than  Schonberg. 

Whereas  Harold  made  many  friends  and  ac 
quaintances,  Schonberg  made  none.  He  was 
especially  awkward  and  uncomfortable  in  the 
presence  of  women,  always  avoiding  them  if  pos 
sible.  He  never  alluded  to  them,  however,  ex 
cept  in  terms  of  respect,  —  such  respect  as  a 
planet  might  feel  for  a  comet  whose  fiery  trail 
and  uncertain  track  it  watches  afar  from  its 
quiet  orbit. 

Harold  had  once  succeeded  in  persuading  his 
friend  to  accompany  him  to  a  house  where  he 
spent  much  of  his  time ;  but  the  visit  was  never 
repeated. 

"He  is  very  interesting,"  said  Harold's  fair 
hostess.  "  Why  do  you  not  bring  him  again  ?  " 

"  What !  he  interests  you  who  cannot  interest 
him?" 

"  Precisely.     That  is  the  reason." 


6  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

"  Well,  at  all  events  he  is  safe,"  replied  Har 
old. 

"  And  you  in  danger  !  "  she  retorted,  laugh 
ing.  "  Answer  me  this  question.  What  is  the 
chief  end  of  man  ?  " 

"  To  love  his  neighbor,"  said  Harold,  bowing. 

"  Good  !  You  have  the  catechism  by  heart. 
Love  is  the  flower  of  human  nature.  For  which 
plant,  then,  have  you  the  most  fear,  —  for  this 
one,"  tapping  his  shoulder  with  her  fan,  "  which 
has  a  hundred  blossoms,  or  that  other  which  has 
only  one  ?  " 

The  friendship  existing  between  Schonberg 
and  Harold  did  not  prevent  each  from  finding 
secret  fault  with  the  other  for  precisely  those 
qualities  which  formed  the  hook  and  eye  of  their 
attachment. 

In  the  former's  rugged  seriousness  the  latter 
found  a  needed  sense  of  repose.  Harold  could 
lean  against  his  friend  as  the  atoms  lean  against 
each  other,  though  he  often  struggled  against 
this  equilibrating  force.  For  him,  a  setting  sun 
meant  nothing ;  there  was  another  day  coming. 
The  falling  leaves  in  the  windy  autumn  woods, 
what  were  they?  Spring  returns  again.  For 
such  a  nature  life  is  a  continuous  quantity,  and 
the  track  of  sorrow  a  furrow  ploughed  in  the 
sea.  The  organization  is  full  of  elasticity,  its 
wounds  heal.  If  a  flower  falls  from  the  stalk,  it 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  7 

puts  forth  another ;  if  one  object  is  withdrawn, 
another  replaces  it.  This  vitality  often  aston 
ished  Schonberg,  though  he  knew  it  was  never 
really  assailed.  To  imperil  life  the  dagger  must 
get  through  the  skin. 


in. 

During  the  summer  following  their  acquaint 
ance  they  made  a  walking-tour  together  through 
Flanders  and  the  Forest  of  Ardennes.  It  was 
Schonberg  who  had  proposed  the  excursion,  but 
Harold  who  had  determined  its  direction.  They 
had  traversed  the  mediaeval  cities  of  Flanders, 
crossed  the  Meuse  at  Namur,  skirted  the  Forest 
of  Ardennes,  and,  following  the  fall  of  the  Lesse, 
had  struck  the  river  again  at  Dinant,  —  all  this 
that  Harold  might  steal  an  interview  with  a  cer 
tain  Madelon  Foy,  then  living  a  league  from 
Dinant,  in  the  chateau  of  Walzins.  Harold's 
romance  was  like  many  another,  except  as  it 
happened  to  be  set  over  against  the  sombre  ex 
perience  of  his  friend.  Contrasted  with  this,  it 
was  like  a  spot  of  sunshine  on  the  dark  slope  of 
a  mountain. 

Thrown  upon  his  own  resources  by  Harold's 
almost  daily  absence  at  Walzins,  Schonberg  gave 
himself  up  to  a  solitary  exploration  of  the  en- 


8  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

virons.  Rowing  down  the  river  one  afternoon 
with  a  stroke  that  resembled  his  lengthy  stride, 
he  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  on  the  island  just 
below  the  mouth  of  the  Lesse.  She  had  ap 
parently  expected  him  to  stop,  for  as  he  passed 
by  she  raised  a  hand  and  beckoned  to  him.  He 
turned  the  prow  towards  the  bank,  and,  almost 
before  it  had  parted  the  long  grass  which  lined 
the  shore,  a  young  girl  leaped  on  the  thwart  and 
pushed  the  boat  into  the  current. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  skiff  ?  "  she  asked,  seat 
ing  herself  in  the  stern. 

"  No,"  said  Schonberg,  looking  at  her  and  be 
ginning  to  row  mechanically. 

"  Of  course  not,  you  come  from  above.  It  will 
be  stopped  at  the  lock." 

She  spoke  with  the  Walloon  accent,  but  her 
voice  was  pure  and  clear.  She  was  evidently 
satisfied  with  the  direction  he  was  taking,  for 
she  sat  quietly  watching  him  as  he  rowed,  lean 
ing  forward  with  one  elbow  on  her  knee,  her 
chin  in  her  hand.  Suddenly  she  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"  Give  me  one  oar,"  she  said  briefly,  stretch 
ing  out  her  arm. 

She  fitted  the  pin  to  its  socket,  and  seating 
herself  on  the  thwart  in  front  of  him  began  to 
row.  For  the  first  time  Schonberg  was  free  to 
look  at  her.  He  saw  a  coil  of  brown  hair 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  9 

drawn  back  so  smoothly  as  to  show  the  natural 
contour  of  the  head,  and  a  strong  but  slender 
back  which  swayed  to  and  fro  with  an  easy 
vigor.  Though  he  had  jostled  many  a  woman 
in  the  street,  Schonberg  had  never  been  so  near 
to  one  before. 

The  swollen  river  which  had  carried  away  her 
boat  was  still  rising,  sweeping  them  down  among 
its  surface  eddies.  From  time  to  time  she 
turned  her  head  to  mark  the  drift,  setting  the 
bow  to  the  course  with  a  strong  quick  tug  at  the 
oar,  which  loosened  the  handkerchief  knotted 
about  her  throat,  and  disclosed  her  neck  browned 
by  the  sun,  —  the  golden  brown  of  Rembrandt. 
As  they  n  eared  the  town  she  steered  in  towards 
the  landing,  and,  as  the  boat  swung  alongside 
the  short  flight  of  stone  steps,  leaped  ashore.  On 
the  lower  stair  she  turned,  looking  at  him,  as  he 
fastened  the  rope  to  the  iron  ring,  till  their  eyes 
met ;  then,  with  an  abrupt  "  Adieu,"  ran  up  the 
steps,  crossed  the  street,  and  disappeared  under 
an  archway. 

Schonberg,  after  paying  his  ten  sous,  walked 
down  the  quay  like  a  man  coming  out  of  a 
dream.  He  sought  to  take  up  his  life  where  it 
had  been  interrupted  by  that  figure  beckoning 
to  him  on  the  island.  He  quickened  his  pace  as 
if  to  escape  the  intruder  ;  but  ever  before  him 
he  saw  the  golden-brown  neck,  the  lithe  form 


10  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

swaying  to  and  fro,  and  inhaled  the  faint  per 
fume  of  her  hair. 

On  reaching  his  room  he  found  Harold,  ra 
diant.  "  I  thought  you  would  never  return. 
Come,  dinner !  I  am  ravenous." 

"  What !    A  lover,  and  hungry  ?  " 

"  Ravenous,  I  say,"  repeated  Harold.  "  I 
have  eaten  nothing  all  day.  Ah,  my  friend," 
he  said,  with  the  impulsive  frankness  natural 
to  him,  "what  blessed  wind  of  fate  drove  us 
hither ! " 

Schonberg  said  nothing. 

"  You  found  the  river  high,"  said  Harold  at 
dinner,  relating  the  events  of  his  day. 

"  Yes,  high,"  replied  Schonberg,  absently. 

"  At  the  ford  of  the  Lesse,  even,  it  was  over 
the  stepping-stones.  Can  you  imagine  how  we 
passed  ?  " 

"  You  wet  your  feet,"  said  Schonberg. 

"  Yes,  mine,"  laughed  Harold. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Harold  said  that  night  as 
they  went  to  bed,  "you  think  I  am  mad,  los 
ing  my  wits.  I  tell  you,  study  me  well ;  I  am 
worth  it,  for  I  am  the  happiest  of  men.  It  is 
for  that  reason  I  find  you  by  contrast  more 
sober  than  ever  to-night." 

Early  the  next  morning  Harold  was  off  with 
a  hunting-party  in  a  neighboring  preserve. 
Schonberg,  whose  brain  sleep  had  cleared,  had  a 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  H 

line  of  sarcasm  about  his  mouth  for  the  night 
before.  Still  the  day  hung  heavily  upon  his 
hands,  and  when  the  shadow  of  Dinant's  spire 
lay  on  the  river  he  went  down  to  the  quay,  and 
drove  the  little  boat  against  the  current,  past 
the  island  to  the  meeting  of  the  waters,  float 
ing  back  by  the  tall  flags  on  the  hurrying  tide. 

"  A  huntsman,"  said  Harold  that  evening, 
cleaning  his  gun,  "  is  a  superstitious  devil.  I 
shot  a  bird  the  last  time,  —  an  old  cock  drum 
ming  on  a  log,  —  and  to-day  I  went  to  the  same 
spot,  as  if  that  were  the  only  lucky  one  in  the 
wood." 

The  following  day  the  boatman,  with  an  eye 
to  his  ten  sous,  was  on  hand,  but  not  his  cus 
tomer.  For  when  the  hour  came,  Schonberg, 
with  his  book,  climbed  the  steps  zigzagging  up 
the  face  of  the  rock  to  the  ruined  citadel.  On 
the  way  back  the  open  door  of  the  church  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  invited  him,  and  he  went  in 
under  the  blackened  portal,  taking  one  of -the 
wooden  chairs  near  the  entrance.  A  few  strag 
gling  worshipers  were  kneeling  here  and  there 
on  the  cold  stones ;  a  boy  was  extinguishing  the 
lights  on  the  high  altar ;  a  priest  came  down  the 
aisle,  crossed  himself  at  the  font,  and  passed  out 
into  the  street. 

As  he  was  about  to  go,  a  figure  he  knew  stood 
in  the  doorway,  the  outer  sunlight  on  her  hair; 


12  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

She  recognized  him,  her  face  lighting  up  with 
a  smile,  and  came  straight  towards  him. 

"  You  row  no  more  ? "  she  said,  her  short 
woolen  dress  touching  his  knee. 

He  did  not  look  up  at  first.  When  he  did, 
the  smile  was  gone  out  on  her  face,  the  same 
searching  expression  he  had  seen  from  the  boat 
filling  her  eyes.  But  in  the  instant  that  his  met 
them  they  changed,  more  and  more,  —  it  was 
only  an  instant,  yet  how  long !  —  till  they  seemed 
to  say  "•  Come  !  "  in  a  soft,  compelling  whisper. 
Then  she  went  on,  between  the  pillars  of  the 
nave,  to  a  side  altar  in  the  transept.  He  could 
see  her  from  where  he  sat,  and  his  eyes  wan 
dered  confusedly  from  her  kneeling  form  to  the 
image  on  the  shrine,  whose  tinsel  robes  caught 
the  glimmer  of  the  candles. 

The  fable  of  Love's  bandaged  eyes  is  spared 
by  the  myth-wreckers.  How  else  explain  his 
random  arrows,  those  careless  but  unerring  ar 
rows  ?  How  tremblingly  would  he  fit  them  to 
the  string  if  he  could  see  the  graybeards  sitting 
by  in  council  —  Experience  that  analyzes,  Pru 
dence  that  weighs,  and  the  cold  eye  of  Reason 
that  puts  to  shame. 

Schonberg  rose  and  walked  to  the  door.  The 
street  was  full  of  people,  and  he  followed  the 
throng  irresolutely ;  then  turned  and  reentered 
the  church.  The  wooden  image  was  there,  with 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  13 

its  vacant  eyes  and  tinsel  robe,  but  the  kneeling 
figure  had  gone. 

"  If  we  stay  here  much  longer,"  said  Harold 
that  evening,  "  we  cannot  go  to  Treves." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  remain  where  we  are." 

"  Yes  ;  but  for  you  it  will  be  stupid.  You 
stay  only  to  please  me." 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  my  opinion,  why  ask  it  ?  " 
said  Schonberg.  "  I  am  not  an  echo." 

His  proposition  was  an  agreeable  one  to  Har 
old,  though  unexpected.  At  all  events,  Harold 
was  satisfied.  He  was  writing  to  his  fair  host 
ess  at  Paris,  a  woman  all  of  whose  friends  were 
suitors,  her  husband  most  of  all. 

"  I  am  writing  Madame  X.,"  said  he,  looking 
up  from  the  table.  "  Would  you  tell  her  she 
has  a  rival  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Schonberg. 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  may  change  your  mind." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  mind  is  not  in  question 
in  such  matters.  Wait,  some  day  you  will  see 
for  yourself." 

He  was  going  to  Walzins  the  next  day. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  to  bed,"  he  said,  laying 
down  his  pen.  "  I  am  sleepy." 

"  You  have  not  finished  your  letter  ?  " 

"No,  and  I  am  not  sleepy,"  he  laughed; 
"  but  to  a  man  who  waits  for  to-morrow,  sleep 


14  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

is  a  famous  time-slayer.  I  was  writing  only  to 
kill  time,  and  since  you  forbid  me  to  write  of 
the  sole  thing  I  have  to  tell,  I  naturally  can 
think  of  nothing  to  say." 

"You  might  tell  how  you  kill  time,"  said 
Schouberg,  preparing  to  go  to  bed. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  thought  Harold,  as  he  went 
to  his  room ;  "  he  has  no  to-morrow."  No  to 
morrow  !  when  in  the  border  land  of  sleep  dark 
eyes  were  saying,  "  Come !  "  and  his  hands 
already  grasped  the  oars. 

When  the  chimes  under  the  bulbous  spire  of 
the  tower  jangled  their  four  o'clock  carillon  on 
that  morrow  for  which  Harold  could  not  wait, 
Schonberg  was  in  his  boat  breasting  the  current. 
He  was  no  sophist.  The  morning  had  seen  al 
ternating  moods,  but  when  finally  he  strode  down 
the  quay  under  the  lime-trees,  it  was  after  ad 
mitting  that  he  went  because  he  wished  to. 

Past  the  bare  limestone  cliffs  he  crept,  inch  by 
inch,  till  he  gained  the  still  water  behind  the 
island ;  then  he  rested  on  his  oars  and  looked 
about  him.  Nothing.  He  pulled  in  under  the 
island  shore,  rowing  along  the  bank  till  it  un 
masked  the  bridge  at  the  mouth  of  the  Lesse. 
He  was  about  to  turn  when  a  boat  shot  out  from 
under  the  trees  at  Anseremne.  He  caught  it 
with  half  a  hundred  quick  strokes,  and  they 
rowed  on  together,  she  slightly  in  advance,  with- 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  15 

out  a  word.  As  they  neared  the  bridge  he  slack 
ened  his  speed. 

"  Kow  !  hard  !  "  she  cried  to  him,  with  a  chal 
lenge  in  her  voice  ;  "  it  gallops  here." 

He  fell  behind,  and  she  passed  first  under  the 
black  arch,  keeping  her  lead  with  a  laugh  whose 
echo  came  back  to  him  from  the  narrowing  cliffs. 
Abandoning  a  generosity  out  of  place,  Schon- 
berg  took  up  the  challenge,  putting  all  his 
strength  in  the  blades.  But  his  companion  had 
stopped,  and,  before  he  saw  where  he  was,  he  felt 
the  keel  grate  on  the  shallowing  bottom,  and  was 
hard  aground. 

"  This  is  the  end,"  she  called  to  him ;  "  we 
can  go  no  farther.  Wait." 

She  had  seen  his  situation  and  was  coming  to 
his  aid.  His  boat  was  fast  at  the  centre,  dip 
ping  bow  and  stern  in  deeper  water  as  he  moved 
from  one  to  the  other  in  the  effort  to  get  clear. 

"  Wait ! "  she  said,  "  you  are  caught  on  a 
rock.  Now,"  and  she  reached  over,  taking  hold 
of  the  stern,  "  get  in  with  me." 

Lightened  of  its  load,  the  boat  floated,  and 
pushing  it  alongside  she  fastened  its  chain  to  the 
ring  at  the  stern  of  her  own,  and  sat  down. 

"  Captured  !  "  she  said. 

"  No,  quits,"  said  Schonberg.  "  One  good 
turn  deserves  another." 

Her  face  was  flushed  with  the  long  effort,  and 


16  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

the  handkerchief  on  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  to 
her  deep  breathing. 

"  It 's  beautiful  here,  is  n't  it?  "  she  said,  loos 
ening  the  folds  from  about  her  throat,  and  dip 
ping  her  hand  into  the  water.  "  Is  that  what 
you  came  here  for  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  he. 

"  Is  n't  it  so  where  you  came  from  ? "  she 
asked,  looking  at  him. 

"  It  is  different,"  said  Schonberg. 

"  Is  there  a  river  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That 's  where  you  learned  to  row,"  she  said, 
with  a  sidelong  glance. 

"  No,  I  don't  row  there." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  look  of  sur 
prise. 

For  want  of  something  to  say,  Schonberg  de 
scribed  the  Seine. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  she  replied,  splash 
ing  the  water  with  her  hand. 

"  This  is  best.  You  would  say  so  if  you  were 
there." 

"  This  is  my  prison,  and  that  is  yours,"  she 
replied  shortly.  "  What  do  you  do  there  ?  " 

"  Study,"  said  Schonberg,  a  little  ashamed  of 
his  occupation. 

She  looked  at  him  again,  curiously ;  then, 
after  a  pause,  "  Did  you  ever  see  Freyr?  " 


TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  17 

"  No ;  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  '11  show  you."  She  reached  back,  and  took 
an  oar  from  the  boat  in  tow.  "  You  row,  and 
I  '11  steer,"  she  said. 

She  guided  the  boats  to  the  shore,  and  helped 
him  to  secure  them,  laughing  at  his  bungling 
knot,  and  finally  tying  it  over  again  herself. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  leading  the  way. 

He  followed  her  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  from 
whose  summit  the  chateau  of  Freyr  appeared 
on  the  plain  below,  its  yellow  walls  hidden  among 
green  hedges,  and  all  about  it  meadows  dotted 
with  grazing  sheep. 

"  I  suppose  there  are  finer  chateaux  in  Paris," 
she  said,  looking  down  on  Freyr,  and  fastening 
a  red  heather  spray  in  the  knot  of  her  handker 
chief. 

"  Yes,  certainly.  But  people  are  not  any 
happier  there  than  here,  for  that  reason." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  she  asked  quickly. 
And  then,  lowering  her  voice,  "  That's  what 
Father  Pierre  says." 

"  And  that 's  what  the  sheep  say  down  there 
on  the  meadow,"  said  Schonberg,  standing  by 
her  side. 

"  It 's  not  what  the  lark  says  when  he  rises  at 
morn,"  she  replied. 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  should  go  ?  "  he 
asked,  not  knowing  why. 


18  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  would  go,  —  that 's  something.  Why  do 
you  come  here  ?  Because  you  are  free.  Come," 
she  said  abruptly,  "  look  at  the  sun."  It  lay  on 
the  edge  of  the  hills  as  they  went  down  the 
path  into  the  valley. 

Her  animation  returned  when  they  were  in 
the  boats  again,  and  she  led  the  way  down  the 
stream,  flinging  a  smile  over  the  water  between 
them  whenever  he  turned.  Under  the  rever 
berating  arch  of  the  bridge  she  whispered 
"  Adieu !  "  and  threw  the  red  heather  into  his 
boat ;  while  hers,  caught  by  the  rush  of  the 
Meuse,  shot  like  an  arrow  in  towards  Anseremne. 


IV. 


For  days  after,  Schonberg  lost  all  trace  of 
her.  He  wandered  restlessly  about  the  church ; 
he  passed  the  archway  under  which  he  had  first 
seen  her  disappear,  with  a  thrill  of  expectation  ; 
but  neither  there,  nor  on  the  river,  nor  at  Anser 
emne,  did  he  meet  with  her  again. 

One  morning  he  opened  the  door  of  his  lodg 
ing  directly  upon  her,  but,  though  she  saw  him, 
she  went  on  without  a  sign.  He  was,  however, 
in  a  frame  of  mind  to  which  obstacles  are  like 
the  sparks  of  a  fuse.  He  watched  her  till  she 
was  fairly  on  the  road  which  wound  under  the 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  19 

hills  along  the  edge  of  the  river,  then  ran  to  the 
water-side  and  leaped  into  his  boat.  He  made 
a  sign  to  the  boatman,  in  his  doorway  across 
the  street,  and  headed  up  the  stream.  Half-way 
to  Anseremne,  where  the  rocks  crowd  the  road 
to  the  bank,  he  caught  up  with  her.  She  was 
sitting  quietly  on  one  of  the  guard-stones  watch 
ing  his  approach,  and  as  the  boat  grated  against 
the  slope  of  the  wall  she  stepped  on  the  bow. 
To  reach  the  seat  in  the  stern  she  had  to  pass 
the  thwart  where  he  sat,  and  as  she  did  so  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  detain  her. 

"  Why,  just  now,  did  you  "  — 

"  Sh !  "  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  arn  I  not 
here  ?  " 

Yes,  she  was  there,  sitting  opposite  him  with 
the  smile  still  in  her  eyes,  —  that  was  enough. 
He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  raised  her  fin 
ger  to  her  lips,  —  she  had  so  much  to  tell ! 
There  was  to  be  a  fair  at  Dinant  to-morrow. 
Actors  were  coming  from  Bruxelles.  Had  he 
ever  seen  a  fair  ?  There  would  be  booths  in 
the  square,  and  tents  full  of  strange  sights,  and 
music. 

What  did  he  care  for  the  fair,  for  the  mimic 
stage  where  the  puppets  strut !  Like  the  rush 
of  a  river  the  rush  of  his  blood  drowned  the 
sense  of  her  words,  but  their  music  filled  his 
ears.  He  listened,  but  he  did  not  hear. 


20  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

"  Row,"  she  said ;  for  he  made  no  haste  to 
reach  Anseremne.  She  took  the  rudder  ropes, 
talking  the  while  ;  steering  west  of  the  island, 
thus  hiding  the  hamlet  on  the  eastern  shore, 
and  heading  the  boat  for  the  mouth  of  the 
Lesse.  All  the  people  for  leagues  around  would 
be  there,  —  oh,  a  great  crowd  !  And  children 
to  ride  on  the  turning  horses.  The  gateaux 
makers  of  Dinant  would  coin  money  that  day. 
And  the  actors, —  Oh!  veine —  She  had  never 
seen  the  actors ;  they  did  not  come  every  year. 

She  had  brought  the  boat  to  the  bank  near 
the  bridge. 

"  And  you  will  be  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  standing  up  and  looking 
down  upon  him,  "  I  shall  not  be  there."  His 
face  clouded,  but  hers  was  radiant.  Had  she 
not  realms  to  give  away  ?  "  Look,  do  you  see, 
near  the  top  of  the  hill,  that  chapel  among  the 
trees?  I  will  be  there.  If  the  door  is  shut, 
knock,  and  call  '  Noel.'  Sit  still !  "  she  cried, 
"  you  will  have  us  over.  Give  me  your  hand." 

The  boat  swung  in  the  eddy ;  she  steadied 
herself  with  his  hand,  and,  watching  her  cbance, 
sprang  ashore. 

*'  Noel,  Noel ! "  he  cried,  as  she  ran  up  the 
bank,  "  you  will  not  deceive  me  ?  " 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  All  the  light 
had  gone  from  her  face. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  21 

"  Deceive  you  ?  "  she  repeated  slowly.  "  Per 
haps  so,  —  who  knows  ?  You  had  best  not 
come." 

He  would  have  followed  her,  but  the  branch 
he  held  had  broken  when  she  leaped,  and  the 
current  under  the  arch  had  swept  him  already 
into  the  mid-stream. 

The  chapel  stood  on  the  hill  behind  the  vil 
lage,  in  the  angle  of  the  cemetery  wall,  of  which 
it  formed  a  part.  Without,  it  presented  that 
appearance  of  age  which  comes  to  buildings  as 
to  men,  when  time  has  destroyed  their  beauty 
but  has  not  yet  sapped  their  strength.  In  the 
band  under  the  windows  might  be  seen  the  trace 
of  a  sculptured  vine  whose  buds  and  leaves  had 
long  since  fallen  ;  and  here  and  there  under  the 
eaves  a  headless  gargoyle  projected  from  the 
shadow.  The  stones  of  its  dark  walls  still  held 
firmly,  but  the  place  of  their  carven  ornaments 
was  known  only  by  scars. 

Schonberg  approached  the  main  entrance  and 
knocked.  The  echoes  answered  within,  and 
without  the  scream  of  frightened  birds.  He 
waited;  then,  laying  his  lips  to  the  oak  door, 
he  called,  "Noel!  "  Still  no  answer.  Only  the 
twitter  of  the  swallows  among  the  vacant  niches 
above,  where  a  single  figure  remained,  over 
whose  head  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  a 
crown  of  thorns. 


22  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

It  was  evident  that  no  one  had  passed  that 
door  for  many  a  day,  and  he  followed  along  the 
wall  in  search  of  another  on  the  side  of  the 
cemetery.  A  narrow  gateway  led  into  the  in- 
closure,  among  whose  leaning  stones  and  iron 
crosses  he  made  his  way.  Some  of  these  were 
newly  gilt  and  hung  with  artificial  garlands ; 
others,  defaced  with  moss  and  rust,  were  nearly 
hidden  in  the  tall  grass  through  which  the  pe 
rennial  flowers  found  their  way  to  the  sun,  and 
stood  whispering  together  at  the  sight  of  their 
ghostly  brethren,  stained  and  disordered  by  the 
rain  and  wind. 

As  he  had  conjectured,  there  was  on  this  side 
another  entrance.  It  was  encumbered  with  ref 
use,  old  boxes,  and  garden  tools ;  and  half  buried 
in  the  rubbish  the  face  of  a  broken  statue  stared 
from  its  deep-cut,  hollow  eyes,  still  instinct  with 
life.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  in.  At 
the  foot  of  the  steps,  beyond  the  line  the  sun 
light  could  not  pass,  he  saw  Noel.  She  was  evi 
dently  waiting  for  him,  for  she  beckoned  with 
a  nervous  gesture,  and  led  the  way  through  the 
debris  which  strewed  the  floor. 

At  one  of  these  obstacles,  following  close  be 
hind  her,  he  threw  his  arms  about  her,  and 
caught  the  quick,  deep  breath  of  surprise  on  her 
lips.  She  did  not  struggle,  but  a  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame ;  then,  for  one  brief  moment 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  23 

she  stood  still.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  "  Noel,"  he 
murmured.  It  was  not  in  the  lecture-room  of 
the  Sorbonne  that  he  had  learned  what  to  say. 

But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  unclasped 
his  arms,  and,  still  holding  one  hand  in  hers,  led 
him  on.  At  the  foot  of  the  winding  stair  lead 
ing  up  to  the  pulpit  she  made  him  sit  down,  and, 
crossing  the  aisle,  pushed  wide  open  one  of  the 
windows  through  whose  dust-covered  glass  the 
sun  could  not  penetrate.  A  flood  of  yellow 
light  leaped  in,  and  fell  on  the  pavement  at  his 
feet.  Even  at  that  moment  he  noticed  the  two 
rude  outlines  on  the  stone  floor,  —  a  man  and 
a  woman,  side  by  side,  with  their  hands  folded 
over  their  breasts. 

"  Let  us  talk  together,"  she  said,  sitting  down 
by  his  side.  "  Tell  me,  what  do  you  do  in 
Paris?" 

She  had  asked  that  question  before. 

"  I  study,"  said  he. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  All." 

"  And  what  do  you  study  about  ?  "  Schon- 
berg  had  no  answer  at  hand.  "  Perhaps  I 
should  not  understand,"  she  added. 

"  I  study  philosophy,  —  but  that  is  only  a 
name." 

"  What  does  it  teach  you  ?  " 

"  How  to  be  happy,  they  say." 


24  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  Happier  than  now  ?  " 

He  made  a  quick  movement  toward  her,  but 
she  checked  him  with  her  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  who  know  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  thought  I  would  go  to  the  fair  ;  "  then, 
looking  away,  "  I  wanted  to  make  you  happier 
than  that." 

He  fell  on  his  knees  at  her  feet,  and  clasped 
his  hands  round  her  waist. 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  cried,  drawing 
her  face  down  towards  his. 

She  neither  resisted  nor  answered  him. 

"But  if  one  is  not  happy,  does  philosophy 
teach  one  how  to  bear  pain  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  Noel,  Noel,  what  shall  henceforth  give 
you  pain  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     But  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "    He  laughed  aloud. 

"  Hush  !  "  She  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth, 
and  bending  down  of  her  own  accord,  "Come 
what  may,  you  are  happy  now.  Will  you  re 
member  ?  " 

"  Noel," —  how  sweet  the  word  was  !  —  "  Noel, 
you  have  something  to  tell  me ;  something  on 
your  mind." 

"No  —  I  "  —  She  checked  herself  suddenly, 
with  an  effort  to  smile. 

"  Is  it  because  I  am  here  ?  "  and  he  stood  up. 
"Tell  me,  —  say  the  word,  and  I  will  go." 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  25 

She  sprang  to  his  neck.  "  No,  no !  not  yet, 
not  yet !  "  she  cried,  sobbing  like  a  child.  It 
filled  him  only  with  joy  then,  but  there  came  a 
day  when  he  would  have  given  all  but  that  joy 
itself  to  forget  that  sob  on  his  breast. 

He  lifted  her  gently,  and  was  about  to  place 
her  on  the  seat  they  had  occupied.  He  had  not 
noticed  it  before,  —  it  was  the  wooden  frame  of 
the  grave-digger,  and  leaning  against  the  pulpit 
stairs  was  the  spade.  He  looked  about  him. 
There  was  no  other  seat.  The  whole  interior 
was  littered  with  rubbish,  barrels  piled  against 
the  pillars,  heaps  of  hay  and  straw  in  the  nave. 
Along  the  side  aisles,  draped  in  dust  and  cob 
webs,  were  ranged  the  stalls ;  but  only  their 
mouldering  arms  and  backs  remained.  On  a 
low  platform,  at  the  end  of  the  nave,  was  the 
remnant  of  a  wooden  altar  which  a  touch  would 
have  overthrown ;  and  above  it  a  black  cross, 
from  whose  arms  the  dying  Christ  looked  down. 
For  a  moment  the  tragic  irony  of  that  rude  fig 
ure,  in  the  midst  of  this  desolation  and  decay, 
made  him  forget  the  burden  in  his  arms.  As 
he  started  down  the  nave  towards  the  platform 
under  the  cross,  she  opened  her  eyes.  He  shut 
them  down  with  kisses. 

"  Come !  "  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  like  one 
waking  from  sleep  to  danger,  "  the  day  is  ours, 
and  it  will  be  gone.  Shall  we  take  our  boat 


26  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

and  go  up  the  river  ?  I  know  places  that  you 
have  not  seen.  And  we  will  dine  there,  —  oh,  I 
have  it  all  ready.  Shut  the  window  while  I  am 
gone."  And,  slipping  from  his  arms,  she  ran 
down  the  aisle  and  out  the  door. 

Schonberg  closed  the  window,  shutting  out 
the  sun.  He  found  his  way  with  difficulty  in 
the  dim  light,  and  at  the  door  turned  back  with 
the  lingering  look  of  one  who  leaves  a  spot  be 
loved.  The  stalls,  like  a  row  of  monks  sitting 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  seemed  to  watch  about 
the  Christ,  whose  outlines  were  just  visible  in 
the  gloom. 

Even  the %  grasses  without,  bathed  in  warm 
sunshine,  were  a  grateful  sight ;  and  still  more 
the  small  house,  with  its  out-buildings  and  domed 
ricks  of  hay  that  he  saw  from  the  gate ;  and 
above  all,  Noel,  coming  down  the  path. 

She  gave  him  the  basket  on  her  arm.  "  I  will 
go  for  the  boat,"  she  said.  "  Take  the  lane  by 
those  birches,  and  meet  me  at  the  bridge." 

There  are  times  when  the  clouds  of  sense 
which  hang  about  this  mysterious  life  roll  away, 
and  everything  is  plain.  How  we  wonder,  when 
the  revelation  is  finished  and  the  soul  gropes 
again  for  a  foothold !  Surely  we  were  mad  that 
day. 

Schonberg  had  no  need  to  record  it  in  his 
journal.  The  breath  of  the  summer  woods,  the 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  27 

light  of  the  summer  sky,  the  voice  and  the  eye 
of  love,  —  all  were  written  down.  Ay  !  and  that 
fleeting  presage  which  troubles  the  heart  when 
it  is  full.  Poverty  is  not  so  poor  as  that  hap 
piness  which  has  before  it  the  unseen  certainty 
of  collapse.  But  he  knew  it  then.  There  was  a 
warning  in  her  happiest  smile,  in  the  quick  alter 
nation  of  her  moods.  For  him  the  wealth  of 
that  day  was  inexhaustible  ;  but  she  counted  it 
as  the  miser  counts  his  gold.  Once  she  left  him 
and  wandered  away  by  herself ;  once  she  crept 
into  his  arms  ;  and  both  times,  to  his  question, 
"  What  is  it,  Noel?  "  she  answered,  "  Nothing. 
I  love  you." 

As  the  day  waned  she  grew  more  restless. 

"  Noel,"  he  said,  "  if  you  do  not  trust  me, 
you  do  not  love  me." 

From  that  time  on,  no  word  or  look  of  trou 
ble  betrayed  her. 

It  was  late  when  they  came  back.  The  stars 
in  the  river  danced  and  sparkled  in  the  ripple  of 
the  boat.  She  had  one  oar,  and  sat  before  him 
as  on  the  first  day.  At  the  bridge  they  ceased 
rowing,  and  the  boat  floated  noiselessly  under 
the  arch.  She  leaned  back,  till  he  saw  her  up 
turned  face,  and  felt  the  touch  of  her  form. 
One  last  kiss,  —  oh,  if  he  had  known !  As  they 
emerged  from  the  shadow,  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  said,  "  The  day  is  over,  —  it 


28  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

is  finished."  She  pointed  to  the  shore,  and  he 
rowed  into  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her  once 
before.  When  the  boat  touched  the  bank  she 
stepped  out  silently,  and  began  to  climb  the 
slope  to  the  road. 

"  Noel,"  he  cried,  "  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  she  answered. 

"Here?" 

"  Yes,  here." 

"  But,  Noel,  when  ?  " 

The  question  startled  her  like  a  rifle  shot. 
He  could  not  see  her  face,  only  that  she  had 
stopped  and  turned. 

"  When  ?  "  Her  voice  was  hoarse,  and  trem 
bled.  "  At  this  time." 

Something  told  him  that  he  should  not  see 
that  form,  hurrying  away  in  the  night,  again. 
He  leaped  from  the  thwart,  letting  his  boat  go 
adrift,  and  ran  up  the  slope.  "  Noel !  Noel !  " 
He  ran  down  the  road.  "  Noel !  Noel !  "  She 
must  have  gone  the  other  way.  He  turned  and 
ran  again.  "  Noel !  Noel ! "  But  the  night  was 
dark.  Great  clouds  were  advancing  over  the 
hills.  A  peal  of  thunder  broke  against  the 
cliffs  of  the  river,  the  flash  lighting  up  the 
road  and  bridge.  No  one  was  in  sight.  "  Noel ! 
Noel !  "  No  one  answered,  no  one  heard,  —  not 
even  the  Christ  that  loomed  majestic  above  the 
desolate  shrine. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  29 


V. 


He  knew  what  the  knot  of  women  under  his 
window  were  talking  of  the  next  morning,  their 
stolid  faces  lighted  by  the  fire  of  curiosity ;  for 
why  did  people  stop  each  other  in  the  street, 
exchanging  low  words  and  exclamations  of  sur 
prise  ?  As  he  hurried  by,  the  venders  of  fruit 
and  spiced  cakes  were  arranging  their  wares  in 
the  booths  of  the  fair. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  cried  one,  screaming 
to  her  neighbor  across  the  way. 

"  A  girl  has  drowned  herself  in  the  river 
above." 

The  answer  rang  in  his  ears.  Every  rock 
and  tree  repeated  it  as  he  went  by.  The  river 
tossed  it  back  from  its  waves,  and  the  wind  told 
it  to  the  quivering  grass.  At  Anseremne  quarry 
workmen  were  pushing  the  loaded  cars  to  the 
barges ;  women  were  washing  on  the  river  bank. 
What !  and  Noel  dead  ?  He  hurried  on  through 
the  wide  river  street,  up  the  narrow  lane.  There 
he  met  a  priest  coming  down. 

"  Where  is  Father  Pierre  ?  " 

The  name  came  back  to  him,  though  he 
had  not  heard  it  since  he  looked  with  Noel  on 
Freyr. 

"  I  am  Father  Pierre.     What  is  it,  my  son  ?  " 


30  TEE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

Father  Pierre  had  looked  into  too  many  faces 
not  to  read  this  one. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  retracing  his  steps.  They 
climbed  the  hill  in  silence,  passing  between  the 
graves  to  the  chapel  door.  A  single  candle 
burned  on  the  altar  within,  beside  a  white  form 
stretched  below,  seeming  itself  the  source  of 
the  light  which  it  reflected  upward  on  the  pro 
tecting  arms  of  the  cross. 

An  old  woman,  bent  over  with  age,  rose  from 
the  steps  as  they  went  down. 

"  Leave  us,"  said  the  priest.  Then  to  Schon- 
berg,  "  Is  your  conscience  free  ?  "  The  blank 
stare  of  the  eyes  into  which  he  looked  was  an 
swer  enough.  "  Enter,  then,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
wait  here." 

When  Schonberg  came  out  again  his  face  was 
as  white  as  the  robe  of  the  dead.  "  Why  "  — 
his  voice  ended  in  a  gasp. 

"  Last  night,"  said  Father  Pierre,  drawing  a 
paper  from  his  soutane  and  handing  it  to  Schon 
berg,  "  she  sent  me  this." 

He  took  it  and  read  :  — 

"  I  shall  be  found  at  the  bridge.  Cover  my 
face,  and  lay  me  in  the  chapel  under  the  black 
cross.  Some  one  will  come.  Make  them  let 
him  go  in,  and  give  him  this." 

There   was   a   folded   paper  within.     As  he 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  31 

opened  it  he  saw  the  white  violets  they  had 
gathered  together,  —  faded,  but  their  scent  made 
his  brain  reel. 

"  Remember  all  you  have  said.  Forgive  the 
past  for  the  sake  of  to-day.  For  what  I  do 
there  is  nothing  to  forgive  ;  it  is  the  only  way  I 
can  be  forever  yours." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  he  said,  holding  it 
out  to  Father  Pierre. 

A  smile  of  satisfaction  lit  up  the  priest's  face 
as  he  read.  "  Come  with  me,"  he  replied,  lead 
ing  the  way.  At  the  farther  angle  of  the  wall 
he  paused  before  a  little  mound  scarce  two  feet 
long,  remote  from  the  rest,  but  carefully  kept 
from  the  weeds.  "  Stoop  and  read,"  he  said. 

Mechanically  Schonberg  did  as  he  was  bid 
den.  There  was  a  single  word  on  the  plain 
wooden  cross  at  the  head  of  the  grave  :  Noel. 

"  It  is  the  old  story,"  said  the  priest.  "  But 
she  has  sprinkled  herself  with  the  blood  of  sac 
rifice.  Let  God,  who  made  the  falcon,  judge 
the  dove." 

Yes,  as  Father  Pierre  said,  all  the  stories  are 
the  same.  In  the  laboratory  of  life  each  new 
comer  repeats  the  old  experiments,  and  laughs 
and  weeps  for  himself.  We  will  be  explorers, 
though  all  the  highways  have  their  signboards 
and  every  by-path  is  mapped.  Helen  of  Troy 
will  not  deter  us,  nor  the  wounds  of  Caesar 


32  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

frighten,  nor  the  voice  of  the  king,  crying,  Van 
ity  !  from  his  throne,  dismay.  What  wonder  the 
stars  that  once  sang  for  joy  are  dumb,  and  the 
constellations  go  down  in  silence  ? 


VL 


To  Schonberg,  who  disappeared  suddenly  from 
Dinant,  Harold  wrote  forthwith :  — 

"  You  cannot  surprise  me.  I  predicted  your 
desertion,  and  condoned  it  in  advance.  I  see 
you  now  in  your  den  among  the  chimney-pots, 
pitying  those  who  part  with  their  reason.  Take 
care !  one  may  reason  irrationally." 

But  when  Harold  returned  to  Paris,  Schon 
berg  had  disappeared,  nor  did  he  hear  from  him 
till  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  when  the  last  letter 
which  came  for  Madelon  Foy  brought  a  band  of 
curious  plates  for  the  hair,  —  beaten  gold  set 
with  topaz,  —  whose  date  and  maker  no  jeweler 
of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  could  determine. 

An  irregular  correspondence  followed,  in  which, 
as  in  their  former  intercourse,  Harold's  part  was 
the  more  active  one ;  but  it  was  long  before  they 
met  again.  After  a  year's  tour  from  Norway  to 
Algiers,  with  Madelon,  Harold  had  returned  to 
France  to  pass  the  summer  at  St.  Malo,  before 
setting  sail  for  Ashurst.  From  here  he  wrote 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  33 

Schonberg  —  Madelon  herself  added  a  postscript 
—  entreating  a  visit ;  and  when  Schonberg  came, 
and  had  grasped  Harold's  hand  and  looked  into 
Madelon' s  winsome  face,  there  climbed  upon  his 
knee  a  little  girl,  whose  clinging  arms  were  like 
the  tendrils  of  the  vine  which  fasten  in  the  crev 
ices  of  the  rock. 

He  found  Harold  unchanged ;  hard  pushed  as 
ever  for  money,  but  not  for  cheer.  Sometimes 
this  cheer  exasperated  Schonberg ;  sometimes  he 
even  admired  it,  but  without  envy.  For  of  all 
those  things  which  grief  envies,  buoyancy  is  not 
one. 

Harold  had  talked  about  his  friend  all  these 
years,  yet  could  not  answer  one  of  Madelon's 
questions.  Now  she  knew  why.  This  friend 
had  no  confidences  to  give,  made  no  allusions 
to  himself.  He  liked  to  be  in  her  presence, 
though  he  said  little,  basking  there  as  in  the 
sun.  Before  the  summer  was  over,  scarcely 
knowing  why,  she  was  deeply  attached  to  him. 
Little  Seraphine  preferred  his  company  to  that 
of  all  others,  not  excepting  Madelon.  She  drew 
him  down  at  morning  on  the  sands,  and  listened 
at  night  with  great  wondering  eyes  to  such  sto 
ries  as  were  not  written  in  her  books. 

"  There  was  once,"  Madelon  heard  him  tell,  in 
the  twilight  hour  when  Seraphine  sat  on  his 
knee,  "  there  was  once  a  fair  country  built  about 


34  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

with  a  wall,  over  which  none  of  its  inhabitants 
could  see,  and  behind  which  the  stars  went  down. 
Some  spent  all  their  time  in  digging  at  this  wall 
with  their  nails ;  others  lay  down  beside  the 
fountains  in  the  shade,  and  laughed ;  and  some, 
like  spiders,  spun  webs  to  hide  the  stars  whose 
perpetual  silence  troubled  them.  But  that  which 
troubled  them  most  was  a  black  bat  none  could 
escape  ;  the  idlers  laughing  at  the  fountains,  nor 
the  workers  at  the  wall.  Upon  the  youngest 
child,  as  upon  the  wisest  philosopher  who  knew 
whether  the  number  of  the  stars  was  odd  or  even, 
this  ugly  bat  lighted  ;  and  such  an  one  straight 
way  disappeared  and  was  seen  no  more.  The 
wise  men  pretended  that  such  had  but  gone  be 
yond  the  wall,  and  this  was  the  more  probable 
because  they  were  no  longer  anywhere  to  be  seen. 
And  some,  who  had  climbed  the  highest  moun 
tains,  said  there  were  pleasant  fields  and  brooks 
without,  —  only  more  beautiful,  —  and  that  the 
bat,  like  themselves,  was  a  prisoner  within  the 
wall,  and  could  not  trouble  those  without. 

"  Now  among  these  people  abode  also  pne  who 
was  ever  with  them,  like  the  bat.  The  bat  they 
named  Death,  and  this  other  they  called  Love. 
None  could  avoid  her,  and  none  knew  whence 
she  came.  She  was  more  subtle  than  the  bat, 
and  wore  many  disguises,  sitting  down  with  the 
peasant  in  his  hut  and  the  king  in  his  council- 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  35 

chamber.  Even  the  wise  men  were  charmed  by 
her,  coming  out  from  their  retreats  to  converse 
with  her,  and  the  workers  at  the  wall  ceased  their 
labor  at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  But  some  said 
she  was  even  more  terrible  than  the  bat;  for, 
said  they,  she  brings  secretly  its  food,  and  but  for 
her  it  would  perish  and  peace  reign.  But  most 
welcomed  her ;  for  under  her  robe  hid  always  a 
laiighing  child  whose  name  was  Happiness,  whom 
every  man  ran  after  to  hold  and  keep  for  his 
own,  but  whom  none  could  win  or  force  to  stay 
with  them,  —  only  Love. 

"  Now  certain  of  the  wise  men  pretended  that 
none  had  ever  seen  Love,  but  that  she  was  as  it 
were  a  dream  ;  and  that  the  child  that  hid  in  her 
robe  was  only  an  image  which  existed  on  the  ret 
ina  of  the  eye.  And  this  was  the  more  proba 
ble,  since  none  had  persuaded  the  child  to  live 
with  them,  nor  could  any  man  be  found  who  had 
seen  it,  except  under  the  shelter  of  Love's  robe. 
But  others  of  the  wise  men  made  charms  where 
with  to  snare  the  child,  and  to  these  charms  they 
gave  mighty  names  :  to  one  Fame,  and  to  another 
Labor ;  to  one  Reason,  and  to  another  Renunci 
ation  "  — 

"  I  do  not  understand."  said  Seraphine,  with 
wide-open  eyes. 

"  So  ?  "  said  Schonberg ;  "  then  I  will  tell  you 
about  the  giants  that  lived  before  the  flood." 


36  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

The  summer  passed  quickly,  and,  as  the  time 
for  farewells  drew  near,  Madelon's  face  grew 
sad,  —  not  alone  because  she  looked  forward 
with  some  misgivings  to  Ashurst.  Her  marriage 
had  been  bitterly  opposed  by  her  father,  and  but 
for  her  mother  —  who  in  becoming  one  had  not 
wholly  ceased  to  be  a  child  —  would  probably 
never  have  taken  place.  The  Countess  Foy 
knew  that  the  will  and  the  heart  of  her  daughter 
were  in  league,  and  that  to  break  the  one  was 
also  to  break  the  other.  Her  husband,  more 
skeptical,  remained  obdurate.  As  often,  the 
same  premise  served  for  both  arguments.  She 
would  yield  because  Madelon  was  their  only 
child,  a  fact  which  to  his  way  of  thinking  con 
veyed  the  right  of  despotism.  The  controlling 
motive,  however,  which  led  her  at  last  openly  to 
take  Madelon's  side  was  a  self -reverence  which 
forbade  her  violating  the  deeper  instincts  of 
her  daughter's  heart,  as  it  would  have  prevented 
her  from  wronging  her  own.  The  Countess  Foy 
respected  herself  first,  her  position  afterwards. 
The  marriage  took  place  quietly  at  Walzins, 
with  the  express  understanding  on  the  part  of 
the  Count  that  thereafter  Madelon's  name  was 
never  to  be  mentioned  in  his  presence.  This 
conditional  consent  afforded  him  more  pleasure 
than  was  ever  suspected,  for  from  that  day  to 
his  death  he  wore  a  black  band  and  black  gloves, 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  37 

the  vanity  of  his  effusive  nature  thus  finding  a 
most  agreeable  field  for  activity.  There  are  men 
for  whom  tears  and  embraces  are  uninteresting, 
but  to  whom  the  temptation  of  playing  the  mar 
tyr  is  irresistible. 

Madelon  was  more  willing  to  pay  the  price  of 
her  happiness  than  her  mother  was  to  have  her. 
For  although  the  latter  approved,  her  heart 
sometimes  misgave  her.  "  Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu, 
advise  me,"  she  said,  appealing  to  a  friend  who 
was  then  visiting  her  at  Walzins. 

"  My  dear,  you  might  as  well  ask  me  which 
balloon  to  buy  for  your  child  of  the  man  on  the 
Champs  Elyse*es  ;  rank,  riches,  love,  —  it  makes 
no  difference.  One  bubble  lasts  as  long  as  the 
other." 

"  Isabel !  "  exclaimed  the  Countess  through 
her  tears. 

"  Patience !  if  the  bubble  is  nothing,  it  is 
we  who  hold  the  string.  Tell  your  gosling  to 
idealize :  by  dint  of  idealizing  night  and  day 
even  friendships  continue  ;  it  is  the  infallible 
elixir  "  — 

"  You  do  not  follow  your  own  advice,"  inter 
rupted  the  Countess  resentfully. 

"  I  ?  never  !  "  laughed  Isabel.  "  I  weep  bit 
terly  the  dead,  but  I  detest  mummies." 

"  You  think  I  bring  you  the  sanction  of  your 
happiness,"  said  Madelon's  mother  in  announ- 


38  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

cing  the  conditions  of  her  husband,  "  but  it  seems 
to  me  I  only  give  you  the  right  to  destroy  it." 
Secretly,  she  trusted  to  the  influences  of  time 
and  her  own  persuasions  ;  but  the  only  conces 
sion  ever  gained  was  after  Seraphine's  birth, 
when,  being  ordered  to  Walziiis  by  the  physi 
cians  to  pass  the  summer  on  account  of  her 
health,  she  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  her  hus 
band's  consent  to  a  visit  of  Made-Ion  with  Sera- 
phine.  It  was  during  the  following  winter,  while 
Madelon  was  in  Algiers,  that  the  Countess  died. 
One  of  Seraphine's  earliest  recollections  was  that 
of  being  caught  in  her  mother's  arms  and  kissed 
in  a  passion  of  tears.  Then  for  the  first  time  the 
child  realized  that  in  her  world  of  sun  and  flow 
ers  was  lurking  somewhere  a  mysterious  peril. 

Schonberg  came  into  the  house  at  St.  Malo  a 
guest,  and  Madelon  was  a  charming  hostess. 
But  it  was  not  long  before  she  found  herself  the 
guest,  and  he  her  entertainer.  One  by  one  she 
discarded  those  "  undermost  garments  of  dissim 
ulation  and  courtesy  which  are  never  put  off." 
Here  was  a  man  not  to  be  lassoed  with  cobwebs  ; 
of  him  she  knew  nothing,  but  him  she  knew. 

One  evening,  at  bedtime,  Seraphine  learned 
that  his  stories  were  to  come  to  an  end.  "  You 
shall  go  with  me  !  "  she  exclaimed,  her  voice* 
quivering  with  the  passion  of  alarm  and  desire. 

"  The  child  loves  you,"  said  Madelon,  holding 
her  breath. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  39 

"  Well,  —  be  it  so,"  replied  Schonberg ;  and 
this  answer  did  not  surprise  her.  For  she  had 
seen  that  unconscious  influence  of  the  child, 
drifting  in  like  a  buoy  upon  a  stormy  sea  to  save 
a  sinking  faith  and  courage. 

That  night  she  covered  little  Seraphine  with 
kisses. 

VII. 

Harold  Fleming  had  been  one  of  Ashurst's 
failures. 

According  to  its  theory  of  life,  nothing  could 
be  strung  on  the  raveling  yarn  of  existence  un 
til  its  ends  had  first  been  secured  by  a  sort  of 
theological  hard  knot,  no  matter  what  bright- 
colored  beads  this  knot  might  thereafter  uphold. 
The  son  of  a  former  village  pastor,  he  had  been 
destined  for  his  father's  calling.  But  the  years 
of  study  abroad,  which  were  to  have  put  the 
finicals  on  his  education,  disturbed  its  foundation 
courses.  He  had  left  Germany  for  Italy,  and 
Italy  for  Paris,  where  he  had  flung  himself  into 
the  study  of  art  with  the  sudden  enthusiasm  of 
one  who  finds  at  last  his  calling,  really  begin 
ning  life  in  earnest  only  when  he  entered  the 
studio  of  a  French  master.  This  act  of  serious 
ness  was  not,  however,  so  interpreted  in  Ashurst, 
which  saw  the  skeleton  in  everything.  For 


40  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

though  its  literary  circle  was  very  devoted  to  the 
"  Old  Masters,"  who  had  become  great  by  stick 
ing  fast  to  their  painting,  Harold,  in  doing  no 
more,  became  only  a  warning  where  they  had 
become  models.  Even  his  fame,  shared  in  later 
years  by  Ashurst,  scarcely  atoned  for  this  lapse 
from  virtue. 

Moreover,  having  married,  while  abroad,  a 
French  lady,  he  very  naturally  brought  her  home 
with  him.  Not  that  Ashurst  had  an  antipathy 
to  all  that  was  foreign.  On  the  contrary,  it 
shared  that  taste  for  foreign  garniture  which, 
like  other  similar  waves,  flowed  and  ebbed  about 
its  ancient  landmarks  without  producing  much 
more  effect  than  the  tide  does  on  a  hard  beach. 
But  it  was  one  thing  to  import  Philistine  orna 
ments  and  apparel,  and  quite  another  to  import 
the  Philistine  herself. 

Madelon  both  disappointed  the  preconceived 
ideas  and  provoked  the  criticism  of  Ashurst. 
She  dressed  better  than  her  neighbors,  yet  cared 
less  about  it.  Except  of  life,  she  possessed  less 
knowledge  than  they,  yet  wielded  more  power. 
She  was,  it  is  true,  very  fond  of  amusement,  but 
of  that  kind  which  consists  preeminently  in  the 
diversion  of  others,  and  this  brilliant  accomplish 
ment  was  a  more  refined  type  of  selfishness  than 
had  been  expected.  Of  beauty  she  had  little. 
In  comparison  with  social  powers  such  as  hers, 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  41 

beauty  is  but  a  passive  force  that  waits,  like  in 
ertia,  on  fortune.  And  with  all  this  she  had  the 
rare  gift,  peculiarly  her  countrywomen's,  of  being 
at  home  what  she  was  abroad,  —  an  enkindling, 
energizing  power.  She  exercised  at  her  fireside 
that  woman's  stimulus  which  in  its  perverted 
form  tempts  men  to  overstep  the  boundaries  of 
duty,  as  an  elevating,  restraining  influence  to 
keep  them  up  to  and  within  its  requirements. 
Her  home  was  not  far  from  the  ideal  one.  There 
were  others  also  in  Ashurst,  and  all  true  homes 
are  everywhere  essentially  alike.  But  the  style 
and  circumstance  of  Madelon's  appealed  to  the 
imagination  as  well  as  to  the  heart ;  its  virtues 
possessed  charms  and  graces.  From  various 
sources  Ashurst  had  formed  a  type  of  feminine 
France  to  which  Madelon  did  not  conform.  For 
she  made  cages  instead  of  snares. 

As  for  Schonberg,  he  felt  in  Ashurst  as  if  he 
had  stepped  from  a  crowded  street  into  some 
quiet  old  china  shop,  where  he  could  neither  sit 
down  nor  stir  without  destroying  some  image. 
For  Ashurst  was  not  tolerant  of  habits  or  judg 
ments  foreign  to  its  own.  It  was  not  only  that 
Schonberg  was  of  an  alien  race,  with  those  char 
acteristic  ways  which  belong  to  the  decorative 
effect  of  national  life,  though  these  also  were 
innocently  resented  as  a  slavery  to  gods  not 
worshiped  in  Ashurst.  Such  external  non-con- 


42  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

formity  to  its  canons  might,  however,  escape 
with  pity  or  be  condoned  with  a  smile.  The 
real  ground  of  disapproval  was  his  steady  neu 
trality  in  the  face  of  all  those  mysteries  of  life 
for  which  Ashurst  had  a  solvent,  —  a  neutrality 
giving  rise  to  the  desire  to  see  him  subdued, 
brought  to  terms,  and  reduced  to  the  common 
level.  Combativeness,  or  aggression,  would 
not  have  produced  half  the  irritation  of  this 
silent  but  deep  non-conformity,  holding  stand 
ards  in  such  absolute  indifference  that  they  lost 
even  the  indirect  tribute  usually  paid  by  their 
violators.  People  in  Ashurst  moved  in  orbits 
calculated  before  they  were  born.  But  for 
Schonberg  all  their  usages  and  precedents,  their 
formulae  and  conventions,  were  only  the  wall 
which  the  wise  men  built  about  the  tree  on 
which  the  nightingale  sang. 

Those  to  whom  appearances  stand  for  realities 
never  knew  him,  except  as  it  were  by  sight; 
they  saw  his  eccentricities  alone,  distinguishing 
him  thereby  from  his  fellows  as  one  might 
distinguish  the  Torso  from  among  statues,  by 
the  absence  of  head  and  limbs.  Most  followed 
blindly  the  verdicts  of  the  oracles  ;  for  places 
like  Ashurst  have  their  oracles,  and  there  are 
everywhere  minds  which  place  verdicts  before 
reasons. 

In  this  north  wind  of  disapproval  there  grew 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  43 

gradually  over  his  speech  and  manners  a  rough 
ness,  like  the  fungus  on  his  fence,  —  a  roughness 
originally  nothing  but  a  straightforward  honesty 
of  purpose  which  stood  modestly,  though  stoutly, 
for  its  own.  But  Ashurst  was  aggressive,  and 
twisted  a  native  virtue  into  almost  a  deformity. 
He  made  his  enemies  as  do  most  men,  by  his 
tongue.  This  was  more  often  due  to  a  certain 
philosophic  candor  of  speech  than  to  any  bitter 
ness  of  spirit,  — sheer  absent-mindedness,  one 
thought  preoccupying  his  attention  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  all  others ;  as  when  he  interrupted  the 
minister,  who  was  repeating  for  his  benefit  a 
sermon  on  the  gravity  of  trifles,  with  the  remark 
that  he  disagreed  with  him  entirely,  for  life,  to 
him,  was  like  the  sphere,  —  the  more  any  portion 
of  it  was  magnified  the  flatter  it  seemed. 


VIII. 

It  was  not  unnatural  that  speculation  should 
busy  itself  about  such  as  Schonberg.  "Of 
mighty  men  and  of  great  rivers  the  springs  are 
obscure."  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  wreck 
abandoned  on  a  lonely  shore.  There  were  even 
those  who  were  confident  that  he  had  suffered 
from  a  disappointment  in  love,  —  a  conjecture 
which  so  amused  Harold  that  he  told  his  wife 
of  it. 


44  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  replied  Madelon  demurely. 

"  You  would  n't  think  so  if  you  had  heard 
what  he  said  when  I  told  him." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  That  love  slew  its  victims  by  surfeit,  not  by 
starvation." 

"  That  was  an  evasion,"  replied  Madelon,  so 
seriously  that  Harold  looked  up  at  her  inquir 
ingly.  "  Besides,"  she  added  quickly,  "  you  are 
a  living  proof  to  the  contrary." 

"  You  don't  really  believe  —  nonsense  !  "  he 
said,  with  a  return  of  incredulity. 

Had  Madelon  wished  to  disarm  suspicion,  she 
should  have  argued  the  matter.  Her  silence 
re-awakened  curiosity. 

"  Come,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  you  know 
something.'* 

"  No,"  replied  she,  hesitatingly. 

"  That  was  what  you  said  when  I  first  asked 
you  if  you  loved  me,  but  it  proved  otherwise." 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  Madelon, 
giving  him  a  covert  reproof  with  her  eyes. 

"  I  did  n't  then,"  replied  Harold. 

A  longer  pause  followed,  during  which  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  wife.  Madelon  was 
silent.  It  is  often  hard  to  give  specific  reasons, 
though  our  intuitions  are  right. 

"  Nobody  knows  him  better  than  I  do,"  said 
Harold.  "  As  for  love ! "  and  he  laughed. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  45 

"  He  loves  Seraphine,"  interrupted  Madelon. 

"  Of  course  he  loves  Seraphine !  Have  you 
no  other  reasons  ?  " 

"  You  would  call  them  trifles,  Harold,"  said 
Madelon,  laying  down  her  work. 

"  Tell  me  one,  and  see.     Come." 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  the  little  square  of 
wood-violets  in  his  garden, —  how  carefully  he 
keeps  them  ?  "  she  said  at  last. 

"No;  but  what  of  it?" 

"  Don't  you  think  there  is  a  kind  of  care  we 
give  to  trifles  which  they  themselves  cannot 
explain  ?  " 

"Well?"  said  Harold. 

"Unless  they  stand  for  something,  —  unless 
they  are  bound  fast  to  memories  "  —  and  Mad- 
elon's  voice,  which  trembled  easily,  faltered. 

"  Madelon,"  said  Harold  emphatically,  "  did 
you  ever  hear  of  that  bridge  into  the  Moham 
medan  paradise,  narrow  as  the  edge  of  a  scim 
itar?  I  think  you  reach  great  conclusions  by 
a  terribly  thin  logic.  If  a  man  has  violets  in 
his  garden,  it  is  because  he  loves  violets,  not 
because  "  — 

"  That  depends,"  interrupted  Madelon. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  you  put  your  conclu 
sions  for  your  premises.  A  man  who  has  loved 
may  love  violets,  but  it  hardly  follows  that 
because  he  likes  violets  "  — 


46  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  don't  say  it  depends  upon  whether  he 
loved,  but  upon  whether  he  won,"  Madelon  in 
terrupted  again.  "  If  he  had  won,  the  violets 
would  have  been  forgotten  soon  enough." 

Between  the  truth  and  the  inconsequence  of 
this  reply  Harold  was  silent.  But  when  he  next 
saw  Schoiiberg  in  his  garden,  he  said,  interrog 
atively,  "  You  are  fond  of  violets  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  replied  Schonberg.  "  They  are 
not  cabbages.  It  is  one  thing  to  dig  in  one's 
garden  for  pleasure,  and  another  to  dig  there 
for  bread." 

IX. 

The  net  of  circumstance  which  closed  about 
Schonberg  after  his  arrival  in  Ashurst  was 
woven  of  a  few  simple  strands.  How  few,  in 
deed,  the  events  of  life,  however  complex  or 
mutable  !  How  common,  and  yet  how  momen 
tous  to  the  individual !  History  only  repeats 
them,  romance  can  but  vary  their  order. 

He  had  taken  a  vacant  house  near  the  Flem 
ings,  at  which  both  Harold  and  Madelon  had 
protested  without  avail.  But  most  of  his  time 
he  spent  with  them ;  for  while  he  loved  inde 
pendence  he  did  not  mistake  solitude  for  it, 
and  had  none  of  that  shallow  vanity  which  af 
fects  a  disdain  for  common  intercourse  as  a 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  47 

proof  of  superiority.  Thus  he  was  no  recluse. 
He  had  his  strong  social  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
trod  pavements  as  well  as  wood-paths.  He 
seemed  to  win  without  effort  the  love  and  esteem 
of  simple  folk  and  children,  but  for  the  minister 
he  was  ever  the  stone  at  the  bottom  of  the  eddy 
which  the  eddy  cannot  lift.  For  the  minister 
was  fond  of  logical  tournaments,  whereas  Schon- 
berg  detested  argument,  thereby  exercising  an 
irresistible  fascination  for  one  whose  sense  of 
duty  outran  the  respect  due  his  own  limitations, 
and  whose  knowledge  of  impotence  begat  an 
uneasy  activity.  On  such  occasions  as  he  could 
not  avoid,  Schonberg  usually  capitulated,  by 
that  most  exasperating  of  all  surrenders,  si 
lence.  Once  only,  driven  to  the  wall,  he  lost 
his  patience. 

"When  I  see  two  men  arguing,"  he  said, 
turning  on  his  heel,  "  I  see  two  donkeys  in  a 
treadmill,  moving  side  by  side,  and  making  no 
progress.  Write  it  out  for  me,  and  I  will  go 
home  and  think  about  it.  Digestion  is  a  soli 
tary  business." 

Little  Seraphine  had  now  a  sister,  with  whom 
she  affected  the  airs  of  a  young  mother.  "  You 
cannot  love  me  so  much  now,"  Schonberg  said 
to  her  one  day ;  "  Elize  must  have  her  share." 
These  words,  understood  in  all  seriousness,  set 
the  little  mind  a-thinking,  and  when  bedtime 


48  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

came,  and  she  had  sought  him  out  on  the 
piazza  for  a  good-night  kiss,  she  asked,  "  Does 
the  sky  of  St.  Malo  touch  the  sky  of  Ashurst?" 

"Yes,"  said  Schonberg. 

"That's  how  much  I  love  you,"  she  replied 
solemnly. 

Those  years  of  Elize's  and  Seraphine's  child 
hood  held  for  Schonberg  a  happiness  akin  to 
that  of  the  mother  who,  pressing  her  loved  ones 
to  her  bosom,  sees  reluctantly  the  days  of  de 
pendence  going  by.  They  contained  no  events 
worthy  of  record,  yet  one  having  access  to  the 
pages  of  the  journal  which  he  filled  with  the 
splutterings  of  his  quill  pen  would  have  found 
witnesses  to  the  influences  which  filled  those 
happy,  monotonous  years,  —  influences  of  the 
child  who  leads  us  back  to  the  beginning  of 
things :  back  to  the  springs  of  life  whose  only 
shadows  are  the  flowers  on  their  banks,  whose 
only  reflection  is  the  upper  sky ;  to  the  primal 
streams  of  hope  and  love,  not  yet  swollen  to 
those  mighty  currents  that  bear  us  away  on 
their  tide  ;  to  the  days  when  we  did  not  ask 
whither  they  tended,  and  had  not  forgotten 
whence  they  came ;  to  the  simple  happiness  of 
the  child  over  whose  pathway  has  not  yet  fallen 
the  shadows  of  those  spectral  shapes,  the  Future 
and  the  Past.  There  is  no  child  who  is  not 
wiser  than  you.  All  the  long-forgotten  first  les- 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  49 

sons  are  on  his  tongue.  Ho  will  disconcert  you 
over  the  Pythagorean  proposition,  though  you 
have  since  mastered  the  Pythagorean  philoso 
phy.  Of  second,  third,  last  impressions  he 
knows  nothing ;  he  will  give  you  the  first.  And 
woe  to  him  whose  ear  has  grown  too  tired  to 
hear,  whose  life  has  no  blessed  second-childhood, 
which  is  the  home-coming  through  reason  and 
experience  to  what  was  once  his  by  instinct. 
For  life's  middle  belt  of  sand  is  bounded  by 
gardens,  and  he  who  traverses  safely  the  zone 
of  doubt  and  pain  finds  beyond  the  self -same 
fountains  of  hope  and  faith  at  which  he  once 
ignorantly  drank. 

' '  They  alone  content  may  gain, 
Who  can  good  from  ill  divide, 
Or  in  ignorance  abide  — 
All  between  is  restless  pain." 

Thus  these  years  went  by  uncounted,  till  one 
of  those  events  came  from  which  days  and  years 
are  reckoned  anew.  Harold  died. 

"  I  bequeath  to  them,"  said  he,  speaking  of 
his  children  to  Schonberg  the  last  time  he  saw 
him,  "  the  friendship  which  has  been  so  long 
mine  and  of  which  I  make  you  trustee,  till  they 
come  of  that  age  when  they  shall  know  better 
than  to  squander  it." 

The  best  proof  of  Schonberg's  faithful  exe 
cution  of  this  trust  was  the  love  which  Sera- 


50  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

phine  and  Elize  gave  him.  Madelon  watched  its 
growth  with  a  passionate  eagerness,  secure  at 
last  in  the  thought  that  she  and  hers  had  found 
their  way  to  the  heart  which  Ashurst  had  not 
carried  by  stratagem  or  assault.  To  every  heart 
there  is  one  royal  road  —  love.  They  had  found 
it  instinctively,  she  and  they,  without  seeking 
for  it ;  as  little  conscious  of  barriers  as  when 
they  passed  the  wall  which  ran  thickset  with 
vines  and  briers  between  the  two  houses,  through 
the  gate.  Any  one  who  saw  them  together 
would  know  that  they  had  entered  by  this  ever- 
open  door. 

After  Harold's  death,  Madelon  realized  that 
he  alone  had  stood  between  her  and  that  home 
sickness  which  belongs  to  her  race.  She  talked 
now  freely  with  Schonberg  of  what  before  she 
had  scarcely  thought.  He  became  more  and 
more  the  friend  in  whom  she  confided,  since  she 
had  no  longer  him  whom  she  loved.  During  all 
these  years  she  had  heard  no  word  from  her 
father.  She  wrote  now,  for  the  sake  of  her  chil 
dren;  but  her  letter  was  returned  unopened. 
The  hope  of  reconciliation  she  had  cherished  on 
their  account  died  out ;  sometimes  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  alone  stood  in  the  way,  and  that 
after  she  had  gone  they  would  recover  that  of 
which  she  had  dispossessed  them.  But  she 
louged  to  see  France  again,  and  talked  it  over 


TEE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  51 

with  Schonberg  in  the  evening  hours  on  the 
piazza  when  the  little  ones  were  asleep. 

"  Yesterday,"  she  said,  one  night,  "  I  asked 
the  Squire  exactly  how  much  I  have  to  depend 
upon." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  said  Schonberg,  mov 
ing  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  He  told  me  to  ask  you." 

He  had  been  dreading  this  question.  Harold 
had  not  been  given  to  economies :  if  he  thought 
of  the  morrow,  it  was  only  of  the  picture  he 
would  paint  or  the  one  he  would  sell.  Schon 
berg  had  already  been  obliged  to  resort  to  arti 
fices,  to  invent  explanations  at  the  moment,  even 
to  pledge  the  Squire  to  secrecy.  It  was  a  pleas 
ure  beyond  gauging,  this  dependence  which 
opened  up  all  the  channels  of  love's  activities. 

"  One  can  live  so  much  cheaper  there  than 
here,"  she  continued ;  "  if  I  only  have  enough 
for  that "  —  And  she  began  to  dream. 

Schonberg  was  silent.  There  would  be  no 
pleasure  left  if  his  affection  was  dragged  into 
the  light  and  gilded  over  with  gold.  He  liked 
gratitude  ;  but  he  detested  its  expression.  And 
Madelon !  with  her  pride  —  that  keen  knife  with 
which  we  wound  ourselves,  which  we  draw  across 
the  very  bonds  of  love  and  sheathe  in  our  own 
hearts.  No,  she  must  not  know. 

"  Harold  would  never  speak  of  these  things," 
she  said,  coming  out  of  her  dream. 


52  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"There  is  nothing  to  fear,"  said  Schonberg, 
astonished  at  what  he  was  saying ;  "  you  have 
enough ;  to-morrow  we  will  talk  about  it." 

The  next  morning  he  walked  into  the  Squire's 
office.  A  silent  man  was  the  Squire,  with  cold 
blue  eyes,  a  straight  mouth  without  lips,  and  thin 
hair ;  one  of  those  men  universally  respected, 
who  die  amid  great  show  of  regret,  leave  ex 
amples  worthy  of  imitation,  and  whom  nobody 
loves.  And  there,  among  the  cases  of  yellow 
law  books,  the  high  stool,  and  iron  safe,  Schon 
berg  made  over  to  Madelon  Fleming,  and  placed 
in  her  name,  for  her,  her  heirs  and  assigns  for 
ever,  the  half  of  his  fortune.  Why  ?  Perhaps 
to  save  his  conscience  the  lie  of  the  night  before, 
or,  since  he  could  not  efface  from  her  heart  its 
sorrow,  to  shield  it  at  least  from  anxiety. 

But  Madelon  never  saw  again  the  sunny  fields 
of  France.  The  energy  of  her  life  ebbed  stead 
ily  after  Harold's  death.  Unaccountable  as  it 
is,  the  stronger  nature,  on  which  the  weaker 
leans,  often  frets  itself  to  sleep  when  the  object 
of  its  activities  is  withdrawn ;  it  is  as  if  the 
oak  failed  when  the  vine  it  supports  dies.  Thus 
Harold  and  Madelon  both  disappeared  from  the 
shaded  paths  of  the  little  village,  and  under  the 
pines  of  its  secluded  churchyard  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  faithful,  if  not  that  of  the  strictly  tradi 
tional  just;  and  Schonberg,  who  had  entered 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  53 

the  Fleming  home  as  the  traveler  enters  the 
inn,  seeking  shelter  from  the  rain  and  night, 
and  who  had  lingered  there*  as  the  traveler 
lingers  at  the  fireside,  loath  to  pursue  his  jour 
ney,  was  left  alone  with  his  trust.  The  net  of 
circumstance  had  closed,  and  held  him  fast. 

"  Between  your  garden  and  your  books  you 
lead  a  very  quiet  life,"  said  the  minister  to  him 
one  day.  In  the  minister's  simplest  sentences 
there  was  often  the  shadow  of  a  hidden  re 
proof. 

"  I  find  a  new  coin  every  time  I  go  over  my 
estate,"  was  the  reply. 


X. 


There  was  something  in  Seraphine  akin  to 
himself  which  drew  out  Schonberg's  sympathy 
and  admiration.  Both  had  his  love,  but  where 
as  Elize  won  it,  Seraphine  commanded  it ;  and  at 
times,  face  to  face  with  this  graver  but  no  less 
willful  nature,  he  felt  that  an  hour  for  control 
and  advice  might  come  when  it  would  neither 
take  the  one  nor  brook  the  other.  "  Elize,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "has  so  much  sympathy;  every 
contact  is  a  discharge.  But  Seraphine !  she 
accumulates  electricity  like  a  Leyden  jar." 

There  was  absolutely  no  outward  resemblance 


64  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

between  her  and  Noel ;  but  the  subtler  affinities 
do  not  reside  in  color  and  form.  No  merely  out 
ward  resemblance  could  have  so  startled  him  as 
did  at  times  the  mingling  of  contained  strength 
and  willful  purpose,  of  impulse  and  reserve,  with 
which  Seraphine  confronted  him.  It  was  not 
her  look,  but  her  way  of  looking,  that  brought 
back  to  him  the  river  bank  at  Anseremne.  In 
this  mental  resemblance — which  even  in  the 
child  at  St.  Malo  he  had  recognized,  fugitive 
and  phantom-like  as  it  then  was  —  he  found  at 
first  a  sad,  consoling  pleasure.  But  as  she  ma 
tured,  above  all  as  the  years  went,  by  and  she 
became  his  own  care  and  preoccupation,  this 
likeness  grew  more  striking,  and  gave  birth  to  a 
strange  apprehension,  a  half -con  fused  forebod 
ing,  which  troubled  his  heart.  He  was  no  coward 
to  Fate,  though  he  recognized  it  in  the  very  act 
of  antagonizing  it ;  but  there  were  times  when 
the  Past,  often  more  real  then  the  Present, 
seemed  to  throw  its  shadow  forward  into  the 
Future.  And  then,  what  weapons  Love  puts 
into  the  hands  of  Fear!  the  senseless  fear  at 
which  he  laughed.  What,  a  tragedy  in  Ash- 
urst !  Why  not  in  Ashurst  as  in  Anseremne  ? 
Had  not  Seraphine  all  those  elements  which  make 
life  momentous  for  their  possessor  ?  "  Dear, 
solemn,  Seraphine,"  as  Elize  used  to  say,  "  who 
makes  alliances  for  life  and  death." 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  55 

She  had  inherited  from  her  father  something 
of  the  New  England  character,  but  it  was  not 
easy  to  see  where  the  native  and  the  alien  met. 
She  was  too  near  the  sources  to  have  become  a 
new  type.  At  times  the  French  inheritance  un 
expectedly  appeared  in  its  own  purity,  a  sud 
den  surprise ;  and  then,  like  the  theme  of  which 
we  catch  at  intervals  a  strain  amid  the  varia 
tions  of  the  composer,  to  charm  by  the  single 
ness  and  freshness  of  its  expression.  She  pos 
sessed  great  naturalness,  but  no  transparency. 
The  most  striking  feature  in  her  appearance  was 
a  high,  rather  narrow  forehead,  which  she  con 
cealed  in  part  by  her  hair,  and  which  gave  her 
face  an  intense  expression.  The  same  intensity 
of  nature  was  heard  in  her  voice,  soft  in  its  in 
flections,  but  with  undertones  of  sadness,  even 
severity ;  and  there  were  times  when  they  rose 
above  the  rest  with  subdued  menace  of  author 
ity.  Elize  recognized  this  authority  without 
having  ever  really  aroused  it.  In  such  life  as 
they  knew  together,  it  was  a  quiet  resisting  force, 
unobtrusive,  but  ready  for  the  whirlwind. 

Elize  was  the  child  of  Madelon.  Like  her 
she  wielded  without  effort  and  without  vanity 
the  weapons  of  fascination  and  grace,  touching 
all  the  gamut  of  sensation  and  emotion  with  a 
delicacy  and  quick  perception  which  gave  her 
the  charm  of  variety.  In  Ashurst  people  were 


56  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

of  one  mould.  They  thought,  talked,  and  acted 
very  much  alike.  If  they  were  not  dressed, 
Schonberg  said,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
distinguish  one  from  the  other.  But  Elize 
could  be  several  people  at  once,  changing  color 
like  the  chameleon,  yet  never  losing  her  identity. 
She  consulted  no  standards,  and  knew  no  models 
of  propriety  she  herself  did  not  suggest ;  giving 
full  play  to  the  fertility  of  her  resources,  often 
creating  more  emotion  than  she  felt,  and  devel 
oping  on  contact  with  others  the  mobility  of  her 
nature,  without  which,  constancy,  if  a  jewel,  is 
one  without  sparkle. 

The  minister  called  her  Elizabeth,  as  if  there 
were  something  shallow  and  unstable  in  the  very 
word  Elize,  which  the  moral  tone  of  its  English 
synonym  could  rectify.  But  the  minister  read 
books  more  and  better  than  human  nature. 


XI. 

Opposite  the  Flemings  a  gilded  gate,  set  in  a 
massive  wall,  guarded  the  entrance  to  The  Tow 
ers.  Though  on  the  summit  of  a  slope,  its  red 
walls  were  not  visible  from  the  road,  being  hid 
den  by  the  surrounding  trees.  It  was  a  hazard 
ous  combination  of  styles,  singular  but  not  quaint, 
irregular  but  tame.  The  very  swallows  passed 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  57 

it  by  for  Schonberg's  projecting  eaves,  in  whose 
sheltering  shadows  they  built  their  nests ;  for  the 
peaked  roof  and  gables  of  the  Flemings,  where 
they  chattered  among  the  flowers  that  climbed 
the  lattice  and  peeped  in  at  the  diamond  panes. 

In  former  times,  when  Mr.  Ferguson  was  liv 
ing,  strangers  in  Ashurst  were  taken  to  see  the 
grounds  and  gaze  at  the  great  facade,  which 
rose  suddenly  to  view  where  the  winding  avenue 
emerged  from  among  the  elms  and  firs  upon 
the  open  lawn.  Even  then,  however,  the  house 
was  rarely  occupied.  Rowan,  the  only  son,  was 
in  Europe,  and  Mr.  Ferguson,  after  his  wife's 
death,  seldom  left  the  city.  In  meeting  him  on 
one  of  those  occasional  visits  he  paid  to  Ashurst, 
one  felt  very  much  as  when,  walking  down  the 
gravelled  path,  the  silent  stately  house  appeared, 
—  both  were  made  to  be  looked  at,  and  few  who 
looked  would  care  to  live  in  the  one  or  with  the 
other. 

"  Uncle,"  said  little  Elize  to  Schonberg  once 
in  the  old  days  when  they  sat  under  the  honey 
suckles  of  the  piazza  with  Madelon,  "  if  that 
house  is  The  Towers,  what  is  the  name  of  our 
house?"  "The  Snuggery,"  replied  Schonberg, 
taking  the  little  girl  in  his  arms ;  and  so  it  came 
to  be  called  ever  after  ;  and  when  Harold,  whose 
buoyant  temperament  often  succumbed  to  trifles, 
grew  dissatisfied,  Madelon  would  ask,  "  Which 


58  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

will  you  choose,  dear,  The  Snuggery,  or  The 
Towers  ?  "  which  brought  out  the  sun  again. 

Why  Mrs.  Ferguson  had  not  lived  with  her 
husband  in  the  city,  where  he  spent  most  of  the 
year,  everybody  had  conjectured,  but  nobody 
knew.  She  existed  now  only  as  a  memory  in 
Ashurst,  the  memory  of  a  silent,  retiring  woman, 
mingling  rarely  in  society,  whose  face  had  the 
sweetness  of  sadness,  but  from  whose  lips  a 
watchful  curiosity  had  never  heard  a  murmur. 
Had  the  walls  of  The  Towers  spoken,  they  would 
quite  likely  have  disappointed  the  curious.  The 
fate  of  first  hopes  is  so  universally,  if  tacitly, 
conceded,  as  to  have  lost  all  its  tragic  force. 
Every  life  is  strewn  with  the  ruins  or  haunted 
by  the  visions  of  habitations  built  in  its  morn 
ing,  —  habitations  which  either  perished  with 
occupancy  or  remained  forever  dreams  ;  and  no 
doubt  many  would  have  considered  The  Towers 
a  more  ample  compensation  than  the  evening 
commonly  offers  the  morning. 

"  Do  you  know  what  she  reminds  me  of  ?  " 
Harold  had  once  said,  as  the  Ferguson  carriage 
rolled  through  the  gate  with  its  lonely  occu 
pant  ;  "  of  what  a  flatterer  said  to  Antony  of 
woman :  *  Between  them  and  a  great  cause  they 
should  be  esteemed  nothing.' ' 

"  Ah !  a  great  cause,  perhaps,  —  but  money !  " 
said  Madelon. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  59 

Yet  the  owner  of  The  Towers  had  not  been 
without  defenders.  On  the  day  of  his  funeral 
Schonberg  walked  home  with  the  minister,  who 
on  parting  with  him  at  his  gate  had  said,  — 

"  Well,  he  was  a  just  man."  The  minister 
was  celebrated  for  his  saving  clauses. 

"  I  have  observed,"  said  Schonberg,  looking 
>  hard  at  his  feet,  "  that  an  excess  of  one  quality 
is  always  bought  at  the  expense  of  another.  If 
a  man  be  absolutely  just,  he  will  be  absolutely 
merciless.  I  would  not  trust  absolute  justice  to 
any  but  a  god." 

"  We  must  give  him  his  due,"  replied  the 
minister. 

"I  was  speaking  of  justness,"  said  Schon 
berg  curtly.  "  What  did  the  Jew  say  ?  Be  just 
one  towards  another?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Do 
as  thou  wouldst  be  done  by ;  that  is  the  only 
justness.  All  the  rest  is  chips,  dry  as  geom 
etry." 

Much  to  Ashurst's  surprise,  Mr.  Ferguson's 
estate  was  found  on  his  death  to  be  in  what  was 
called  an  "  embarassed  condition."  He  had  be 
gun  life  with  an  end  in  view,  and  this  end  he 
had  attained.  At  first,  as  with  the  mariner  who 
creeps  to  windward,  progress  had  been  slow,  and 
his  hand  never  left  the  helm.  But  then  the 
helm  was  steady.  In  this  first  period  of  his 
career  he  risked  little  and  economized  every- 


60  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

thing.  In  the  second  he  drew  a  danger  line 
about  certain  safe  investments  sufficient  to  meet 
his  yearly  expenses,  from  the  least  personal  item 
to  the  brilliant  flower  exhibitions  which  consti 
tuted  one  of  Ashurst's  annual  attractions.  He 
found  economy  not  inconsistent  with  display,  and 
practiced  it  as  before.  But  besides  this  pru 
dently  reserved  capital,  which  occasioned  him 
no  concern,  was  another,  a  floating,  uncertain 
wealth,  ever  shrinking  and  expanding,  which  gave 
to  life  all  its  zest.  The  former  was  food  and 
clothing,  the  gratification  of  vanity,  and  the  love 
of  ostentation  ;  the  latter  fed  the  thirst  for  ex 
citement  begotten  in  the  long  windward  beat 
and  not  allayed  by  arrival  in  port.  For  a  long 
time  this  prudent  distinction  was  maintained. 
But  the  intoxication  of  success  has  this  in  com 
mon  with  the  grosser  form,  that  it  leads  men 
to  assume  risks  and  incur  perils  from  which 
soberness  would  flee.  Before  the  fair  gales  of 
prosperity,  the  pressure  of  the  ship's  helm  close- 
hauled  to  the  wind  —  a  constant  reminder  of  the 
point  to  be  weathered  —  disappears  ;  and  it  was 
thus  at  last  that  Mr.  Ferguson  embarked  upon 
enterprises  which  compromised  his  reserves.  His 
ship  might  have  outlived  the  storm  had  not  the 
pilot  succumbed  at  the  critical  moment ;  ashore, 
and  masterless,  it  went  to  pieces  in  the  hands  of 
the  wreckers,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  legacy 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  61 

from  his  mother,  Rowan  found  himself  stripped 
of  all  a  reasonable  expectation  had  led  him  to 
look  upon  as  his  own. 

His  father's  death  was  a  shock,  but  not  an 
affliction.  There  had  always  existed  between 
them  such  a  gulf  of  nature  that  sympathy  had 
never  gained  on  the  submission  of  the  child  or 
the  authority  of  the  father.  This  authority, 
though  silent,  was  none  the  less  irksome.  Mr. 
Ferguson  was  too  indifferent  to  be  inquisitive. 
Pie  had  given  his  son  the  best  education  purchas 
able  with  legal  tender.  He  himself  had  not  en 
joyed  such  advantages,  but  he  vaguely  approved 
of  them,  as  also  of  Rowan's  life  abroad.  In  his 
opinion  there  was  no  education  but  life.  He 
could  see  his  tact,  his  judgment,  his  nerve,  de 
velop  with  experience,  but  he  could  not  trace 
the  influence  of  Greek  roots  or  logarithms  into 
success,  —  "  any  more  than  you  can  find  the  food 
in  the  muscle,"  some  one  said  to  him ;  to  which 
he  replied  that  "  chips  and  confections  were  not 
food."  He  had  achieved  success  as  the  bee 
makes  honey,  by  persistent  work ;  giving  as  lit 
tle  heed  to  the  fragrance  and  beauty  of  the 
things  among  which  he  moved,  as  does  that  in 
dustrious  rover  flying  from  flower  to  flower  on 
purely  commercial  transactions.  But  behind 
this  tolerant  indifference  Rowan  knew  that  his 
father  regarded  certain  professions  as  profitless 


62  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINT. 

trades,  to  be  indulged  in  as  whims  are,  —  if  one 
can  afford  to ;  and  that  he  expected  him  to  re 
turn  in  due  time,  and  take  his  place  in  the  city. 
There  was  a  glad  sense  of  relief  at  the  bottom 
of  his  ieart  when  that  wall  of  cold  opinion  which 
circumscribed  his  life  disappeared,  and  he  saw 
DO  longer  stretching  before  him  the  iron  track 
his  father  had  laid  into  his  future. 

He  had  been  amusing  himself  abroad  with 
painting ;  now  he  settled  down  to  work.  The 
loss  of  fortune,  uncovering  the  spur  of  necessity, 
converted  a  pastime  into  a  profession,  and  made 
aims  of  desires. 


XIL 

There  was  another  person  involved  in  the 
disaster  to  Mr.  Ferguson's  estate,  —  his  ward 
and  Rowan's  cousin,  Gladys. 

After  two  years  of  legal  complications  which 
threatened  to  be  interminable,  Gladys  had  ac 
cepted  The  Towers  in  liquidation  of  her  claims ; 
for  after  her  uncle's  affairs  had  passed  through 
the  hands  of  the  wreckers,  this  cumbersome  prop 
erty  alone  remained.  Gladys  had  visited  her 
uncle  when  a  little  girl,  but  was  a  stranger  in 
Ashurst,  and  had,  in  fact,  made  only  a  single 
preliminary  inspection  of  The  Towers  before 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  63 

coming  to  take  possession  for  the  summer.  She 
had  scarcely  arrived  when  a  letter  from  Rowan 
announced  his  return  from  Europe,  and  a  visit 
to  Ashurst. 

Gladys  had  not  seen  him  since  he  went  abroad. 
Meanwhile,  the  wheel  of  fortune  had  made  a 
revolution.  He  could  not  of  course  hold  her  to 
account  for  its  reverses,  yet  she  did  not  look  for 
ward  to  the  meeting  with  perfect  serenity.  She 
had  often  tried  to  imagine  herself  in  Rowan's 
place,  —  where  in  fact  she  was,  —  and,  judging 
others  by  herself,  this  mode  of  generalization 
had  led  her  to  conclusions  with  reference  to  her 
cousin's  state  of  mind  not  altogether  satisfac 
tory.  But  she  was  no  more  to  blame  than  he. 
Certainly,  with  all  her  delicacy  of  invention,  she 
would  never  have  dared  to  offer  compensation. 

This  letter  stirred  other  thoughts  also.  She 
had  always  liked  Rowan,  though  she  had  never 
been  able  to  manage  him,  and  had  once  decided 
that  on  that  account,  after  all,  she  did  not  like 
him.  This  decision  rested  on  an  effort  of  the 
will  rather  than  a  state  of  mind,  and  to  maintain 
its  integrity  the  effort  had  to  be  occasionally  re 
peated,  which  in  time  becomes  tiresome.  But 
this  decision  had  to  all  appearances  been  a  final 
one,  for  shortly  after  Rowan's  departure  Gladys 
became  Mrs.  Temple. 

Whatever  the  thoughts  his  return  evoked,  she 


64  TEE   WIND  OF  DEBT  INT. 

had  regained  her  composure  when  he  came  up 
the  steps  of  the  terrace  at  the  hour  mentioned 
in  his  letter.  She  was  sitting  under  the  awning 
among  the  flowers,  her  lap  full  of  bright-colored 
wools,  which  formed  an  effective  contrast  with 
her  simple  toilette,  —  a  very  pretty  picture.  It 
was  one  of  luxury,  —  Gladys  never  disguised  it, 
—  but  it  formed  the  background  not  the  fore 
ground  of  her  pictures. 

Rowan  answered  the  question  she  had  been 
debating  while  sitting  there  in  the  momentary 
expectation  of  hearing  his  steps  on  the  gravel, 
as  to  whether  she  should  or  should  not  kiss  him 
affectionately,  by  lifting  her  fingers  to  his  lips 
with  a  — 

"  Good  morning,  Cousin  Gladys." 

"  One  would  think  I  was  a  princess,"  she  said 
with  a  reproachful  look,  though  the  solution  of 
her  question  flattered  her. 

"  If  you  are  not  a  princess,  I  at  least  am  a 
vassal,"  said  Rowan  ;  "  that  is,  with  your  per 
mission.  I  wish  to  rent  of  Your  Highness  the 
small  house  by  the  ferry." 

This  house  was  a  dependency  of  The  Towers, 
in  a  lane  which,  once  a  road,  had  not  known 
a  carriage  wheel  since  the  bridge  replaced  the 
ferry. 

"  But,  Rowan,"  said  Gladys,  "  surely  you  are 
going  to  stay  with  us  ?  " 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  65 

"  No,"  said  Rowan,  "  thank  you." 

"But,  Rowan,  everything  is  ready.  Your 
room  "  — 

"  Thank  you  ;  you  are  very  kind,  but  you  can 
be  kinder." 

"  You  shall  be  free  as  —  as  I  am,"  urged 
Gladys. 

"  I  want  to  be  more  so.  Besides,  I  have  sent 
my  boxes  to  the  house  already." 

"  Before  even  asking  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  can  still  make  your  terms." 

"  Terms  !  business !  are  we  not  cousins  ?  " 

"  On  that  account  the  business  is  all  the  more 
important." 

"  But  how  will  you  live,  Rowan  ?  You  can 
not"— 

"  Oh,  I  have  engaged  an  old  woman.  She  is 
probably  waiting  now  on  the  doorstep  for  the 
key.  Then,  I  shall  not  stay  long." 

"  And  you  came  this  morning  !  " 

"  This  morning,  cousin." 

"  And  you  have  engaged  a  servant  already !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Is  there  anything  very  difficult 
in  hiring  an  old  woman  ?  " 

"  But  can  she  cook  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see.  Have  you  any  more  '  buts,' 
Cousin  Gladys  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  none,  if  you  came  here." 

"  But  —  I  don't  choose  to,  cousin." 


66  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  You  are  unkind,  Rowan,  and  a  trifle  —  im 
polite." 

"  And  you  are  very  arbitrary.  In  fact,  it  is 
for  that  reason  "  — 

"With  a  tenant,"  she  said  quickly,  "one  has 
the  right  to  be.  But  with  a  guest "  — 

"  Oh,  a  guest ! "  interrupted  Rowan,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  what !  you  would  make  a  guest  of  your 
cousin  ?  " 

Gladys'  eyes  fell. 

"  You  can  neither  be  at  home,  nor  a  guest, 
here.  But  am  I  to  blame,  Rowan  ?  " 

"  Are  you  to  blame  —  for  my  recollections  ? 
No,"  he  said  absently. 

"Why  do  you  come?"  she  asked,  after  a 
pause,  lifting  her  eyes  again. 

"  To  see  you,  cousin." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Gladys,  reviving  and  flush 
ing  with  pleasure. 

"  For  what  else  ?     I  know  no  one  here." 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  My  first  reason  you  do  not  believe,  my  sec 
ond  you  will  not  understand.     I  was  a  child 
here." 
•    "  Yet  you  know  no  one." 

"  No  —  but  associations  do  not  make  the 
charm  of  childhood." 

"  Well,  then,  places." 

"  No,  nor  places.  But  the  key,  cousin  ;  will 
you  send  it,  or  shall  I  'take  it  ?  " 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  67 

"  Wait,  I  will  get  it,"  and  Gladys  disappeared 
through  the  glass  doors.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
present  it  with  bended  knees  on  a  cushion  of 
crimson  velvet,"  she  said,  returning  with  the 
key. 

"  In  token  of  welcome  ?  " 

"No,  of  defeat." 

She  walked  with  him  across  the  terrace  to  the 
steps. 

"  Do  you  find  many  changes,  Rowan  ?  "  she 
asked. 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 

"  The  trees  grow ;  that  is  about  all." 

"  Why  not  come  and  take  dinner  with  me  to 
night  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  am  all  alone.  Or  have 
you  stocked  your  pantry  already  ?  " 

"  Gladly.     Is  Mr.  Temple  here  ?  " 

"  Jack  ?  Oh,  I  expect  him  to-morrow  night." 
She  had  absolutely  forgotten  she  was  married ; 
she  often  did,  though  not  to  her  detriment. 
"  We  will  have  a  cozy  chat  this  evening,"  she 
added.  "  You  have  to  right  yourself." 

"I?    Right  myself  ?" 

"  Yes,  you.     The  absent  are  always  wrong." 

"  And  by  way  of  compensation  are  soon  for 
gotten." 

She  laughed.     "  We  shall  see." 

"  Well,  then,  till  dinner  ;  "  and  he  went  down 
the  steps. 


68  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

XIII. 

The  doors  of  the  house  in  the  lane  turned  that 
afternoon  on  hinges  which  had  not  creaked  for 
years.  It  was  a  small  house,  overshadowed  by 
lindens  and  buried  in  lilacs,  with  low,  rambling 
outbuildings  that  might  have  been  builded  in  a 
dream.  Within  reigned  the  disorder  of  arrival. 
Boxes,  trunks,  furniture,  were  piled  about  in 
confusion.  A  little  old  woman,  dull-eyed  and 
wrinkled,  struggled  amid  this  chaos  with  the 
silent  mechanical  energy  of  a  mercenary. 

The  windows  were  open.  Odors  of  earth  and 
forest  came  in  with  the  warm  summer  air  to  take 
possession  again  of  the  rooms  so  long  deserted. 
Indifferent  to  the  confusion,  Rowan's  dog,  a  silky 
but  muscular  setter,  lay  on  a  rug  near  the  door, 
his  nose  between  his  paws,  his  eyes  following  his 
master.  "  What  matters  it  all !  "  said  that  eye 
to  his  master's,  "  you  are  here.  But  come !  let 
us  go  out  into  those  wide  fields  where  I  hear  the 
song  of  the  robin  and  the  leap  of  the  hare  ; 
there  is  home  !  " 

Rowan  was  tired.  He  flung  himself  into  a 
chair  by  the  window,  while  the  old  woman  worked 
on  in  silence.  The  dog  came  and  laid  his  head 
upon  his  knee,  fixing  his  liquid  eyes  on  his  mas 
ter's.  "  Come,"  they  said  ;  "  see  how  patient  I 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  69 

am.  Listen !  how  the  birds  sing."  Rowan  gave 
some  directions,  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  the 
door. 

Home !  the  lane  hedged  in  with  a  tangle  of 
blackberries  and  dwarfed  shrubs,  the  green 
fields  spotted  with  yellow  blossoms,  the  hills 
asleep  in  the  sun,  —  they  were  all  his.  It  was 
home. 

On  the  edge  of  the  wood  the  dog  paused  to 
see  which  way  his  master  should  go  ;  but  Rowan 
threw  himself  down  in  the  shade  of  the  hem 
locks,  and  the  dog  crouched  quietly  beside  him, 
his  head  close  to  his  hand. 

How  short  a  time  it  seemed  since  Rowan  the 
child  ran  in  those  meadows,  and  the  bees  rose 
from  the  clover  as  just  now,  when  he  passed  by ; 
when  life  was  full  of  serenity,  and  confidence  in 
happiness  deeper  than  happiness  itself ;  when 
each  day  a  capacity  unfolded  like  a  bud,  and  the 
ear  had  not  yet  heard  the  footfall  of  that  mys 
terious  Presence  which  blots  desire  and  disap 
pointment  alike  from  creation. 

The  dog's  eyelids  were  slowly  closing.  What 
had  he  to  do  with  these  things  ?  He  knew  his 
master's  eye  when  it  spoke  to  him,  when  the  gun 
was  taken  from  the  rack  and  the  leash  slipped 
from  the  collar ;  but  now  his  master  was  asleep, 
—  asleep  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  That  was  his 
habit.  Well,  he  too  would  doze  awhile. 


70  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

No,  associations  did  not  constitute  the  charm 
of  childhood,  nor  yet  places,  —  the  wood  whence 
the  brook  sallied,  the  meadows  where  it  slept. 
What  we  go  back  to  seek  there  is  the  bloom  of 
our  own  nature.  We  would  fain  escape  that 
angel  whose  flaming  sword  bars  the  past,  and 
creep  back  again  into  our  Eden,  hoping  to  find 
there  our  lost  selves. 

Men  were  raking  the  hay  in  the  fields  beyond. 
The  dog  raised  his  head,  and  listened  to  their 
shouts  as  they  guided  the  oxen,  to  the  creak  of 
the  burdened  wheel. 

Beyond  the  road,  Rowan  could  see  the  white 
stones  of  the  village  graves.  His  mother  was 
there,  under  the  pines.  Too  little  of  influence 
that  gentle  life  had  had  upon  his,  —  scarcely 
more  than  the  star  upon  the  wind  and  waves 
of  the  sea.  But  now  that  she  was  gone,  his 
thoughts  turned  towards  her,  as  the  eye  of  the 
sailor  seeks  the  star  when  it  is  overswept  and 
hidden  by  the  storm.  How  soft  the  afternoon 
light,  like  twilight,  under  the  pines.  Nature 
herself  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  the  peace  of  that 
secluded  spot.  What  cant  we  fall  into,  thought 
Rowan.  Nature !  she  goes  her  way,  —  kind  if 
we  will  lie  down  with  the  dog,  that  knows  not 
of  these  things ;  if  we  will  be  satisfied,  as  the 
flower  is,  to  scatter  in  her  garden  a  little  seed ; 
but  to  the  voices  of  the  soul  dumb  and  inexo 
rable,  as  if  no  man  did  pray. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  71 

"Come!"  said  the  dog,  sitting  up  on  his 
haunches,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  wood, 
where  the  leaves  rustled ;  "  there  is  a  squirrel 
over  there  among  the  acorns,  or  a  partridge 
looking  for  berries  in  that  cover  which  slopes  to 
the  brook." 

Rowan  rose,  shaking  the  red,  hemlock  spines 
from  his  clothes.  Across  his  path  the  dog  ran 
joyously,  starting  the  squirrel  from  his  notch  in 
the  oak,  the  partridge  from  her  dusty  hollow  in 
the  fallen  tree ;  then  leaped  to  the  crest  of  the 
rocky  point  overlooking  the  river,  where,  trem 
bling  with  excitement,  one  paw  raised,  he  lis 
tened  for  the  stir  of  the  leaf  or  the  snap  of  the 
twig  that  betrays  the  quarry.  When  Rowan  had 
climbed  the  height,  he  was  far  away  on  the 
meadow  below,  following  the  steady  flight  of  a 
hawk.  Rowan  smiled  as  he  watched  them,  — 
the  silent  sailing  of  the  bird,  fanning  the  air 
with  the  tips  of  its  wings,  the  bark  of  the  pant 
ing  dog,  following  hard  with  eager  eye.  Nestor 
never  caught  his  bird.  But  instinct  was  stronger 
than  experience.  Why  not,  indeed  ?  What  a 
fine  world,  forsooth,  would  this  be  if  reason 
could  rule  passion,  and  experience  clip  the  wings 
of  desire ! 

A  path  led  along  the  crest  of  the  rocks.  Over 
the  crisp  moss,  sprinkled  with  acorns,  down  the 
uneven  steps  of  the  ledges,  Rowan  followed  it 


72  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

into  the  young  forest  of  birches  and  maples, 
breast  high.  Nestor,  returned  from  his  chase, 
walked  behind  with  dripping  tongue. 

The  path  widened  now  to  a  wood  road,  close 
set  with  a  wall  of  young  trees,  among  which  it 
wound  between  black  stumps,  scarred  by  fire  but 
tipped  with  mosses,  scarlet  and  gray. 

"  Nestor  !  "  said  Rowan,  turning  suddenly  to 
the  dog  at  his  heels,  "  we  must  go  back.  We 
have  to  go  to  our  cousin's  dinner." 

Nestor's  answer  was  a  low  growl. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Rowan,  listening.  Yes, 
there  were  footsteps  among  the  dry  leaves,  and 
as  he  turned,  a  woman,  bareheaded,  appeared, 
like  an  apparition,  close  beside  him,  at  the  turn 
of  the  road.  It  was  Seraphine. 

A  momentary  fear  filled  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Down,  Nestor !  "  said  Rowan,  in  a  whisper 
to  the  dog,  who  still  growled. 

Her  dress  touched  him  as  she  passed  by.  He 
looked  up,  still  holding  the  dog  by  the  collar, 
but  she  was  gone.  Was  it  a  dream?  For  only 
now  that  she  was  gone  did  he  see  her  slim  fig 
ure,  the  crimson  dress,  the  black-lace  scarf  about 
her  throat,  the  midnight  hair  over  the  midnight 
eye,  and  the  red  flush  of  surprise  on  her  cheek. 

Nestor  wagged  his  tail.  How  should  he  know 
whom  to  greet,  or  of  whom  to  beware?  His 
scent  was  keen  for  the  step  of  the  fox,  and  his 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  73 

eye  caught  the  quiver  of  a  leaf  in  the  still  wood. 
But  what  should  he  know  of  human  destinies, — 
that  lock  in  the  glance  of  an  eye,  at  the  touch 
of  a  crimson  dress,  and  become  one  forevermore. 


XIV. 

Whether  because  Rowan  was  a  little  early  or 
dinner  a  little  late,  Gladys  managed  to  secure  a 
tete-d-tete  with  her  cousin  beforehand,  in  which 
she  rambled  over  Europe  with  him  in  so  Bohe 
mian  a  fashion  that  he  almost  fancied  he  was 
sipping  ices  under  the  arcades  of  San  Marco,  or 
chocolate  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir,  in 
stead  of  sitting  on  the  terrace  in  the  sleepy  calm 
of  Ashurst. 

"  So  you  paint  now?  "  said  Gladys,  with  that 
taint  of  depreciation  in  her  voice  which  conveyed 
what  she  did  not  say. 

"  A  little,  cousin." 

"  I  never  expected  you  would  be  a  painter, 
Rowan." 

"  No,  nor  I.  But  for  misfortune  we  should 
sometimes  sail  down  the  Rubicon,  thinking  Rome 
was  at  its  mouth." 

She  looked  at  him  meditatively  a  moment,  and 
then,  resuming  her  work,  remained  a  long  time 
absorbed  apparently  in  its  intricate  design. 


74  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY, 

"  You  manage  to  extract  a  good  deal  of  com 
fort  out  of  misfortune,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"  It 's  not  an  unmixed  evil." 

"  How  very  philosophical  we  are,  cousin,"  she 
said,  mimicking  him. 

"  We  do  not  philosophize  at  our  age ;  it  is  al 
ways  the  future,  never  the  past."  Gladys'  face 
flushed  visibly.  "A  life  must  sink  its  three 
times  before  it  submits  to  destiny." 

"  How  many  chances  have  you  left  ? "  she 
asked,  playing  with  her  rings. 

"  You  have  all  three,  cousin." 

"Ah,  you  think  so?" 

"  I  judge  by  appearances." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  They  are  deceitf  uL" 

"  Not  in  your  case." 

"  O  King  Solomon  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  your 
wisdom  would  crush  us  ...  if  it  were  not  light 
ened  a  little  by  its  conceit.  Do  you  think  you 
have  found  the  bottom  when  you  have  reached 
the  end  of  your  plummet  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Rowan,  "  I  thought  we 
were  talking  about  appearances." 

"  Well,  be  it  so ;  and  because  I  have  not  aged 
horribly,  therefore"  —  she  paused. 

"  Therefore  what,  cousin  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  —  give  me  your  arm,  please ;  din 
ner  is  ready." 

Gladys  knew  the  difference  between  the  pleas- 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  75 

ure  of  eating  and  the  pleasure  of  dining ;  as  also, 
—  such  is  the  poverty  of  perfection,  —  that  all 
good  dinners  would  be  wearisomely  alike  but  for 
the  sparkling  wines  of  society.  Moreover,  con 
versation  a  deux  was  her  delight,  though  only 
with  a  cousin.  Coffee  was  served  on  the  terrace, 
where  she  entertained  Rowan  in  the  long  twi 
light  with  her  views  on  life  in  general,  and  in 
Ashurst  in  particular. 

"  Tell  me,  Rowan,  really,  why  do  you  come 
back  here  ?  " 

"  I  've  told  you  once,"  replied  he,  watching  her 
needle. 

"  Yes,  sentiment.  Excuse  me,  but  I  don't 
believe  in  it." 

"  That 's  usually  the  case  with  things  we  don't 
understand." 

"  Perhaps  I  disbelieve  in  it  because  I  under 
stand  it  so  well,"  she  said. 

"  Am  I  forbidden  to  tread  my  native  soil  ?  " 
asked  Rowan,  looking  from  her  fingers  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  it 's  patriotism,  is  it  ?  I  did  n't  know  you 
were  so  fond  of  America." 

"  I  'm  not,  to  the  extent  of  believing  it  con 
tains  all  the  attractions,  any  more  than  one  per 
son  possesses  all  the  virtues." 

"  We  don't  cultivate  the  virtues  here,"  replied 
Gladys ;  "we  simply  exterminate  the  vices ;  it 's 
more  simple." 


76  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Rowan  laughed.  "  You  are  quite  an  observer. 
How  many  days  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  require  a  very  acute  observer  to 
see  that  theology  and  society  are  very  curiously 
intertwined  in  Ashurst,"  said  Gladys. 

"  Theology  !  I  never  expected  to  see  you  in 
terested  in  theology." 

"  I  am  not,"  and  Gladys  shrugged  her  shoul 
ders  imperceptibly  ;  "  one  does  n't  have  to  study 
codes  to  feel  them.  I  suppose,"  —  she  contin 
ued,  laying  aside  her  work,  for  the  light  was 
waning,  —  "I  suppose  you  are  a  confirmed  bach 
elor  now,  with  all  your  habits  fixed." 

"  If  they  are  good  ones  they  are  better  than 
friends,"  said  he,  examining  the  pattern  she  had 
laid  down. 

"  You  will  have  to  forswear  some  of  them  here, 
and  form  some  new  ones.  I  have  already." 

Rowan  walked  to  the  railing  and  looked  down 
on  the  lawn.  The  stars  and  the  fireflies  were 
beginning  to  show  themselves. 

"  If  I  molest  nobody,  nobody  will  molest  me," 
he  said,  carelessly. 

"  Oh,  you  are  going  to  play  the  hermit." 

"  I  'm  going  to  rest,  whatever  that  may  be." 

"  What  a  superfluity  of  reasons  you  have," 
said  Gladys,  talking  to  his  back.  "  The  last  is 
the  worst  one,  however." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Rowan,  turning  around. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  77 

l,  you  are  not  adapted  to  solitude.  A 
fish  with  wings  must  fly,  you  know  ;  and  if  there 
are  eagles  in  the  air,  there  are  also  sharks  in  the 
sea.  Perhaps  you  can  do  as  the  fable  suggests, 
swim  close  to  the  air  and  fly  close  to  the  sea." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  only  that  it  is  absurd  for  you 
to  play  the  hermit.  It  may  do  very  well  for 
Dr.  Schonberg,  but  it 's  not  your  metier." 

"  So  Dr.  Schonberg  is  still  here,  is  he  ?  " 

"Probably,"  said  Gladys,  leaning  over  the 
railing  beside  him.  "  The  Flemings  have  called, 
but  not  he ;  he  's  not  very  sociable,  I  believe. 
Do  you  remember  the  Flemings,  Rowan?" 

"  Only  the  name,"  he  replied,  putting  on  his 
hat. 

She  was  disappointed  at  his  going  so  soon, 
but  for  some  reason  did  not  betray  it. 

"  Do  you  ever  paint  portraits,  Rowan  ?  "  she 
asked,  at  the  terrace  steps. 

"  No,  never." 

"  But  mine  ?  —  if  I  asked  you.  I  think  it 
would  be  a  good  idea,  before  I  sink  my  third 
time.  That  is,  if  your  charges  are  not  exorbi 
tant  ;  business  between  cousins,  you  know,  is 
very  important." 

"I  do  not  paint  portraits,  cousin." 

"  Cousin !  why  do  you  call  me  cousin  ?  You 
might  say  Mrs.  Temple  once  in  a  while,  or 
Gladys." 


78  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  It  really  makes  no  difference,  Gladys."  - 

"  No  difference !  "  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"  A  name  is  a  door,  sir.  Is  there  no  difference 
between  the  front  door  which  the  servant  opens 
and  the  lattice  wicket  which  the  mistress  raises 
herself?  But  the  portrait,"  she  said,  averting 
a  reply. 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  Always." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "Well,  come  Fri 
day,  in  the  morning." 

"And  in  the  mean  time,  I  shall  see  you,  of 
course." 

"  If  I  get  lonely." 

"  Or  if  your  cook  fails." 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,  undoubtedly.  Good 
night,"  and  he  went  down  the  steps  into  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  lining  the  lawn. 


XV. 

Almost  every  one  liked  Gladys. 

The  majority  of  us  are  soon  weighed  and 
measured,  and  in  spite  of  some  differences  of 
opinion  these  estimates  converge  on  the  whole, 
like  the  rays  of  a  reflector,  into  a  tolerably  def 
inite  image  which  stands  for  the  reality.  We 
are  sometimes  astonished  when  this  double  faces 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  79 

us  ;  but  surprise  us  as  it  may,  we  have  generally 
no  difficulty  in  recognizing  it.  And  yet  about 
Jack  and  Gladys  Temple  the  widest  differences 
of  opinion  prevailed.  The  greater  part  of  one 
sex,  whenever  within  her  range,  saw  themselves 
as  in  a  glass,  —  a  magic  glass  reflecting  exactly 
what  they  wished  to  see,  —  and  were  correspond 
ingly  flattered.  Others,  with  less  vanity  and 
more  penetration,  admired  the  glass  itself,  its 
crystalline  transparency  and  clear  depths.  A 
few  careful  observers  had  noticed  that  it  revealed 
everything  but  itself.  Finally  there  were  the 
cynics  who  had  discovered  how  very  thin  even 
the  best  of  mirrors  are. 

But  the  most  cynical  of  Gladys'  acquaint 
ances  were  still  her  admirers.  Her  art  was  so 
perfect,  so  delicate,  that  if  not  altogether  de 
ceived  by  the  illusion,  they  were  still  fascinated 
or  amused.  One  soon  forgets  the  side  of  the 
moon  one  does  not  see. 

Her  marriage  with  Jack,  as  well  as  Jack's  own 
estimate  of  his  wife  had  been  a  fruitful  subject 
of  speculation.  Had  he  married  Gladys'  money? 
Not  only  did  he  have  sufficient  of  his  own,  but 
this  supposition  involved  the  conception  and 
execution  of  a  formidable  scheme,  the  conquest 
of  Gladys  herself.  It  was  certainly  difficult  to 
imagine  Jack  laying  siege  to  Gladys,  or  Gladys 
falling  into  any  snare  Jack  could  weave.  The 


80  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

romance  of  her  marriage  was  more  commonly 
constructed  on  the  basis  of  a  worldly  ambition 
which,  in  availing  itself  of  the  indispensable 
privileges  of  the  married  state,  had  very  pru 
dently  contrived  that  the  safeguard  should  not' 
also  be  a  prison.  If  this  were  true,  it  was  the 
only  instance  in  which  the  shrewdness  known  to 
underlie  Jack's  quiet  good  nature  had  failed 
him.  Moreover,  his  perfect  serenity  and  con 
tentment  warranted  the  suspicion  that  he  was 
possibly  the  deeper  of  the  two.  When  some  one 
at  the  club  pityingly  referred  to  him  as  a  "  led 
horse,"  the  reply  came  :  "  Yes,  led  to  water  with 
a  silk  ribbon." 

This  serenity  was  mutual.  No  one  had  any 
reason  to  suspect  the  slightest  discord.  The 
traditional  valet  or  maid  could  have  testified 
that  Jack  and  Gladys  formed  a  model  example 
of  unruffled  conjugal  happiness,  and  that  never 
a  word  or  a  look  betrayed  a  worm  in  the  bud. 
Even  her  aunt  Isabel,  who  was  always  construct 
ing  plans  for  others  out  of  the  debris  of  her 
own  experience,  and  who  was  sure  that  Gladys 
once  had  a  heart  of  which  her  cousin  Rowan 
might  have  been  the  possessor,  had  almost  for 
gotten  this  episode,  and  believed  men  and  women 
were  no  longer  what  they  used  to  be  when  she 
was  young.  In  those  days,  at  least,  men  had 
eyes  to  see  and  women  eyes  to  compel. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  81 

When  Jack  came  down,  Saturday  night,  from 
the  city,  the  house  seemed  to  have  been  running 
all  summer ;  and  Sunday  morning  there  was  a 
dainty  breakfast  on  the  terrace,  at  which  Gladys 
presided  with  her  usual  affability,  for  say  what 
one  might  about  Gladys,  her  vivacity  and  seren 
ity  of  temper  were  not  confined  to  gaslight.  She 
was  as  fascinating  and  well  dressed  at  breakfast 
as  at  a  dinner  party. 

"  There  are  some  very  amusing  people  here," 
she  said,  after  giving  Jack  a  description  of  cer 
tain  of  her  visitors  ;  "  and  some  very  nice  ones," 
she  added,  observing  his  face. 

'•  I  suppose  we  're  to  make  a  lot  of  calls  this 
afternoon,"  Jack  replied,  with  a  resigned  air. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Jack  dear !  "  ex 
claimed  Gladys,  buttering  a  roll ;  "  this  is  Sun- 
day." 

Although  not  ignorant  of  Gladys'  powers  of 
adaptation,  Jack  opened  his  eyes  with  a  low 
whistle  ;  to  which  Gladys,  tranquilly  finishing  her 
roll  with  her  innocent  blue  eyes  full  on  Jack's 
face,  paid  no  attention. 

"One  may  smoke  here?"  he  said,  taking  out 
a  cigar. 

She  made  a  little  moue  for  an  answer,  and  he 
lit  his  cigar.  Ostensibly  engaged  therewith,  he 
was  in  reality  watching  Gladys.  The  art  of  eat 
ing  was  one  of  her  accomplishments.  His  appe- 


82  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

tite  was  superior  to  hers,  but  he  had  usually  to 
rely  on  his  cigar  in  order  to  finish  their  repasts 
together  ;  a  practice  which  Gladys  allowed,  even 
indoors. 

"  Is  n't  this  lovely  !  after  the  city,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  her  husband  with  the  happiness 
that  belongs  to  a  good  breakfast  in  the  open  air. 
"  All  alone  here,  by  ourselves ;  it 's  like  a  pic 
nic." 

"  A  la  Watteau,"  said  Jack. 

"You  dear  old  fellow,"  and  Gladys  leaned 
over  the  balcony  beside  him,  slipping  her  arm 
through  his  ;  "  if  you  would  only  exert  yourself 
with  other  people  as  you  do  with  me !  you  can 
be  perfect  when  you  wish  to  be." 

"  It  is  n't  so  very  difficult;  with  you  to  help, 
you  know,  Gladys." 

Gladys  laughed  softly.  She  liked  a  compli 
ment,  even  from  Jack. 

"  I  don't  think  we  will  go  to  church  this  morn 
ing,"  she  said,  as  the  bells  of  Ashurst  rang  out 
in  the  still  air.  "  People  will  hardly  expect  us 
to,  the  first  Sunday,  you  know.  Besides,  I 
have  n't  time  to  dress." 

Her  excuse  would  in  all  probability  have 
proved  acceptable,  for  the  people  of  Ashurst  to 
whom  she  referred  dressed  also  for  church  every 
Sunday,  as  she  did,  without  the  suspicion  of 
irony.  Jack  acquiesced.  Gladys  knew  what  he 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  83 

liked  and  what  he  disliked.  When  he  called 
her  good-natured  he  paid  a  compliment  to  her 
powers  of  discrimination.  The  foundation  stone 
of  her  creed  was  respect  for  one's  aversions,  and 
she  knew  Jack  as  the  glove  knows  the  hand. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  over  the  house  with 
me  ?  There  's  ever  so  much  to  be  done,"  and 
Gladys  grew  animated.  The  Towers  furnished 
an  opportunity  for  the  control  of  outlay,  which 
she  enjoyed  more  than  the  outlay  itself.  Gladys 
was  no  doll.  Jack  had  learned  long  ago  that  if 
he  wished  to  make  her  happy  he  must  allow  her 
to  make  her  own  presents.  She  found  very  lit 
tle  pleasure  in  passively  receiving.  Her  happi 
ness  lay  in  the  chase,  though  she  ate  the  game. 

"You're  not  going  into  that  on  Sunday,  aro 
you,  Gladys  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  smiled  imper 
ceptibly,  continuing  in  a  confidential  tone. 

"  You  are  not  to  go  into  the  billiard-room  till 
it  is  finished.  I  know  exactly  what  to  do  with 
it.  Have  you  seen  the  stables  ?  " 

"  I  went  out  there  before  breakfast." 

"  Are  n't  they  nice  —  the  box  stalls  ?  Come, 
dear,"  and  she  gave  Jack's  arm  a  twitch,  "  you 
shall  show  some  interest.  I  have  been  looking 
forward  to  this  all  the  week.  I  want  to  show 
you  the  river ;  it 's  lovely,"  and  Gladys  put  on 
her  hat. 


84  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

They  walked  across  the  lawn,  soft  as  forest 
moss,  and  sown  with  white  clover. 

"  Jack,"  said  Gladys,  —  she  usually  reserved 
her  surprises  for  the  evening,  when  she  took 
down  her  hair ;  but  this  one  would  not  wait,  — 
"  Rowan  Ferguson  is  here." 

Although  Rowan  was  her  cousin,  Jack  never 
remembered  having  heard  his  name  on  Gladys' 
lips.  He  did  not  ask  himself  why,  for  various 
reasons ;  for  one,  because  he  knew  Aunt  Isabel 
was  right  when  she  said  Gladys  was  proud  as 
Lucifer ;  for  another,  because  of  a  chance  re 
mark  Gladys  had  once  made,  to  the  effect  that 
people  who  inspired  jealousy  were  not  worth  it ; 
and  last  of  all,  because  he  was  proud  himself. 

"  That 's  awkward,  is  n't  it,"  said  he,  taking 
his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth. 

"Why,  Jack?" 

"  Well,  here  we  are,  in  his  nest,  you  know.'* 

"  I  don't  believe  he  cares,"  she  said  in  an  ab 
sent  manner,  as  they  sauntered  across  the  lawn. 
"There  are  better  things  in  this  world  than 
money."  Jack  wondered  what  things  Gladys 
could  be  thinking  of.  "  I  mean  to  devote  my 
self  to  him,"  she  atlded  resolutely. 

"  You  're  awfully  good-natured,  Gladys." 

"  I  shall  end  by  believing  you,  if  you  say  it  so 
often." 

As  they  disappeared  from  the  open  into  the 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  85 

shrubberies,  a  little  white  bunch  of  muslin  came 
running  across  the  lawn  as  fast  as  two  short 
bare  legs  tipped  with  pink  boots  would  allow, 
uttering  at  intervals  a  frantic  cry  of  "  Papa  Jack ! 
Papa  J-a-ck ! "  from  a  pair  of  lungs  taxed  to 
their  limit  by  this  double  exertion.  And  al 
though  both  Gladys  and  Jack  turned  at  the  first 
cry,  and  waited  till  the  child  had  overtaken  them, 
its  apprehension  of  being  left  behind  was  not 
allayed  till,  its  hands  in  theirs,  it  walked  safely 
between  them.  Gladys  waved  a  signal  to  a 
white-capped  figure  on  the  terrace,  and  the  trio 
continued  on  their  way  to  the  river. 

There  was  a  boat-house  on  the  bank,  its  wide 
piazza  overhanging  the  water.  One  could  look 
southward  as  far  as  the  brown-roofed  bridge 
uniting  Ashurst  with  its  suburb  on  the  opposite 
shore.  This  shore  was  a  level  plain,  studded 
with  single  elms  unfolding  like  giant  flowers, 
their  slim  trunks  clothed  with  green  to  their 
bases.  Beyond,  clustered  among  trees,  lay  a 
village  above  whose  sky-line  rose  a  bare  spire, 
glistening  white  in  the  sun. 

What  Jack  was  thinking  of,  as  he  watched 
Mab  pushing  twigs  and  stones  through  the  rail 
ing  into  the  water,  were  hard  to  tell.  Gladys 
was  evidently  very  happy.  In  a  low  cane  chair, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  the  steeple  over 
among  the  trees  certainly  did  not  suggest  to  her 
original  sin. 


86  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

She  had  some  plans  for  the  summer  and  be 
gan  to  discuss  their  details  with  Jack.  The 
plans  themselves  she  never  discussed,  and  Jack 
never  had  occasion  to  thwart  her.  Her  good 
taste  and  sense  of  propriety  were  a  pure  instinct, 
almost  as  destitute  of  morality  as  that  other  in 
virtue  of  which  she  loved  her  bath.  So  far  as 
Jack  knew,  she  had  no  secret  plans  whatever. 
When  they  were  matured  she  made  them  known, 
and  took  pleasure  in  discussing  with  him  their 
execution.  If  he  lacked  the  genius  of  concep 
tion,  his  practical  advice  was,  per  contra,  very 
shrewd.  The  sharpest  remark  Gladys  had  ever 
made  to  him  was  in  reply  to  a  caution  of  his  in 
regard  to  an  affair  which  she  had  in  hand,  a 
caution  so  replete  with  penetrative  sagacity  that 
it  took  away  her  breath.  "  You  don't  see  far, 
Jack,  dear,"  she  said,  following  his  advice  to  the 
letter,  "  but  you  do  see  the  end  of  your  nose 
distinctly." 

People  disputed  amicably  over  this  union. 
What  was  its  secret,  confidence  or  indifference  ? 
Or  as  a  cynical  Benedict  put  it,  Two  slaves  or 
one  ?  For  there  was  a  puzzling  yet  ever  present 
happiness,  so  refreshing  in  its  freedom  that  even 
those  whose  ideal  was  a  complete  mutual  de 
pendence,  thought  twice  and  sighed.  Gladys 
was  vaguely  conscious  of  all  this  theorizing  —  of 
the  thinking,  if  not  of  the  thought.  How  we 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  81 

should  revolt  against  the  theories  of  our  neigh 
bors  !  How  Gladys  herself  would  have  laughed 
at  the  assertion  of  Jack's  complete  submission  I 
She  could  not  drive  him  an  inch.  She  never 
tried  to ;  her  hand  was  too  skillful  not  to  be 
soft. 

XVI. 

Meanwhile,  having  exhausted  the  vicinity  of 
its  movable  property,  Mab,  disposed  to  adven 
ture,  strayed  along  the  bank,  being  cautioned  by 
Gladys  not  to  go  out  of  sight  and  not  to  ruin 
her  sash. 

Reveling  in  an  unaccustomed  liberty,  she  had 
soon  explored  the  immediate  neighborhood,  and 
began  to  pursue  her  investigations  down  the 
shore.  After  a  soliloquy  on  the  possibility  of 
getting  over  the  fence,  she  squeezed  herself 
through  under  the  lower  rail,  and  having  dis 
posed  of  this  difficulty  satisfactorily  advanced 
triumphantly  into  the  field  beyond.  At  its 
farther  corner,  in  the  shade  of  a  grove  of  pines, 
her  eye  was  caught  by  a  summer-house,  and 
thither  the  spirit  of  discovery  and  conquest  led 
her.  At  the  edge  of  the  grove,  however,  she 
perceived  that  the  house  had  an  occupant  and 
stepped  to  reconnoitre. 

At  first  sight  the  strange  figure  of  Schonberg 


88  TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINT. 

alarmed  her,  suggesting  the  ogre,  a  race  in 
which  she  firmly  believed.  But  curiosity  got 
the  better  of  fear,  and  she  advanced  cautiously 
against  the  enemy.  Arrived  within  hailing  dis 
tance,  she  held  a  parley. 

"  Halloo !  "  she  cried. 

Schonberg,  turning  round,  saw  a  small  figure 
in  pink  and  white,  its  hat  hanging  down  its 
back,  its  hands  crossed  behind,  in  an  attitude  of 
mingled  defiance  and  good  nature. 

"  If  you  '11  tell  me  who  you  are,  I  '11  tell  you 
who  I  am,"  said  Mab,  drawing  a  few  steps 
nearer. 

"Well,  who  are  you?"  said  Schonberg,  struck 
with  the  fairness  of  this  proposition,  and  look 
ing  at  her  over  his  glasses. 

"  Mabel  Temple.  Do  you  live  here  ?  "  and 
with  growing  confidence  she  went  a  little  closer. 
Schonberg,  of  whom  children,  with  an  insight 
often  called  perversity,  were  fond,  closed  his 
book.  "  What  makes  you  wear  that  on  your 
head  ?  "  inquired  Mabel. 

"To  keep  it  warm,"  said  he,  taking  off  his 
skull-cap.  "  If  you  will  give  me  some  of  your 
hair,  I  won't  wear  it  any  more." 

"  My  mamma  would  n't  let  me,"  replied  Ma 
bel,  who  now  came  boldly  forward,  and,  seating 
herself  beside  him,  inspected  the  top  of  his  head 
with  a  frank  curiosity.  Having  satisfied  herself 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  89 

on  this  point,  she  advanced  one  little  foot  to 
wards  him  and  displayed  a  pink  kid  boot  but 
toned  up  to  the  ankle. 

"  I  've  got  some  new  shoes,"  she  said ;  and, 
following  up  the  attack,  she  pulled  back  her 
dress  over  a  pair  of  brown  knees  and  exhibited 
an  undergarment  stitched  with  pink  silk,  "  and 
a  new  petticoat,"  she  added,  complacently. 

Somewhat  abashed  by  this  proceeding,  Schon- 
berg  remarked  they  were  very  pretty. 

"Where's  your  little  girl?"  pursued  Mab, 
having  settled  these  preliminaries. 

"  I  have  n't  any  little  one,"  replied  Schonberg. 

"  Why  don't  you  buy  one,  then  ?  "  inquired 
Mab  earnestly.  "  My  mamma  bought  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Schonberg,  becoming  interested; 
"and  who  is  your  mamma  ? " 

This  was  a  rider  which  Mab  found  difficult  to 
answer. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  n't  any." 

Mab  nodded  her  head  and  swung  her  legs  vio 
lently  in  reply. 

"  I  've  got  a  papa  too,"  she  added  proudly. 

"And  did  your  mamma  buy  him  also?"  asked 
Schonberg. 

Nonplussed  again,  Mab  resolved  to  ask  her 
mamma.  Possibly  this  resolve  set  her  in  mo 
tion,  for  she  made  a  revolution  on  her  little 
stomach  and  slid  off  the  seat. 


90  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  am  going  now,"  she  said  decisively. 

"  Well,  good-by,"  said  Schonberg. 

She  ran  unsteadily  between  the  trees  to  the 
meadow ;  but  forgetting  how  far  she  had  strayed, 
and  seeing  neither  Jack  nor  Gladys,  began  to 
cry.  Schonberg,  who  was  watching  her,  laid 
down  his  book  and  went  to  her  assistance.  She 
confided  her  hand  trustfully  to  his,  and,  with  an 
occasional  sob,  kept  up  with  his  lengthy  stride 
as  best  she  could. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  Jack,  who  suddenly 
caught  sight  of  her  as  she  emerged  from  the 
pines  with  her  protector,  "  there  's  Mab  way  off 
there  with  a  man." 

Though  chatting  with  him  the  while,  Gladys 
had  followed  the  fluttering  sash  through  the 
meadow  and  taken  in  the  whole  scene  in  the 
summer-house.  She  was  usually  very  particular 
about  Mab's  coming  into  contact  with  strangers ; 
but  she  replied  quickly,  "Do  sit  still,  Jack," 
and,  blushing  faintly,  disappeared  behind  the 
willows. 

Mab  was  discoursing  volubly  when  Gladys 
returned,  but  in  the  absence  of  all  reproof  grew 
gradually  calm ;  and  in  the  pleasure  of  an  un 
expected  approbation  forgot  to  ask  Gladys  her 
question. 

"  Who  was  it  ? "  inquired  Jack  as  they 
walked  homeward. 


TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  91 

"  Dr.  Schonberg,"  said  Gladys. 

"  Sort  of  a  hermit,"  suggested  Jack. 

"  Exactly  —  quite  inaccessible.  But  he  has 
promised  to  dine  with  us.  It  was  really  very 
fortunate,  Mab's  straying  over  there  —  a  special 
Providence." 

"  Sort  of  divine  interposition,"  said  Jack 
dryly. 

Gladys  laughed,  remarking  wisely  that  people 
who  required  so  much  trouble  were  generally 
worth  it. 

XVII. 

The  one  person  in  Ashurst  of  whom  Schon 
berg  was  afraid  was,  curiously  enough,  his  ser 
vant  Deborah.  The  consciousness  of  this  weak 
ness  had  once  exasperated  him.  He  had  strug 
gled  against  it  with  a  secret  sense  of  shame  ; 
but  without  avail,  the  resolutions  which  he 
made  melting  away  at  the  sound  of  Deborah's 
heel.  He  finally  accepted  his  defeat  philosophi 
cally,  and  resignedly  kept  out  of  her  way.  He 
even  at  last  came  to  look  upon  her  as  one  of  the 
necessary  evils  of  existence,  apologizing  to  him 
self  for  her  as  Montaigne  did  for  the  malady 
which  tormented  his  life. 

The  evil  in  Deborah  was  not  so  much  the 
love  of  tyranny ;  for  she  allowed  her  master  a 


92  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

fair  measure  of  liberty.  It  was  rather  a  con 
temptuous  scorn  for  the  manner  in  which  he 
exercised  it.  In  many  respects  she  was  a  per 
sonification  of  Ashurst,  a  coarser,  more  angu 
lar,  but  honest  censor.  Her  narrow  horizon  had 
given  a  terrible  severity  and  fixity  to  her  ideas 
which  rendered  her  scorn  sublime.  There  was 
a  fibre  of  probity  in  her  moral  nature  which 
saved  her  from  bigotry  and  redeemed  her  igno 
rance.  Schonberg  could  pay  this  tribute  to  her 
uncompromising  disapproval ;  and  while  for 
him  she  was  but  a  servant,  as  he,  for  that  mat 
ter,  was  for  her  a  barbarian,  they  entertained  a 
mutual  respect  for  each  other.  She  remained 
in  his  service  because  she  preferred  masters  to 
mistresses ;  and  he  retained  her  because  he 
chose  rather  to  endure  an  evil  he  knew  than 
hazard  others  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  One 
great  virtue  she  possessed ;  she  saved  him  from 
all  the  details  of  household  management,  to 
which  he  thus  remained  a  stranger.  He  had  an 
aversion  for  minutiae,  and  would  rather  go  with 
out  his  dinner  than  plan  and  buy  it.  In  this 
respect  he  was  fortunate.  Superiority  over  life 
depends  largely  upon  the  condition  that  it  does 
not  flood  us  with  its  commonalties.  One  may 
have  a  philosophy  to  withstand  its  sorrows,  and 
yet  succumb  to  its  miseries. 

He  passed  much  of  his  time  in  what  he  called 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  93 

his  tea-house.  It  was  his  habit  to  read  half 
aloud  with  the  mutterings  of  a  suppressed  vol 
cano;  and  this  he  could  do  here  with  the  cer 
tainty  that  he  would  not  be  overheard,  and  that 
no  footsteps  except  those  he  loved  to  hear  were 
likely  to  disturb  him.  The  mere  thought  of 
Deborah,  listening  to  his  voice  in  the  pauses  of 
her  work  with  that  contemptuous  sniff  which 
punctuated  her  silence,  would  have  rendered 
him  dumb.  Then,  too,  men  have  their  favorite 
places,  where  the  hand  is  cunning  and  the  mind 
free :  an  office  desk,  a  laboratory  table,  a  win 
dow  seat,  a  study  chair.  This  was  his. 

All  the  winter  long,  when  his  steps  were  con 
fined  to  the  narrow  paths  through  the  snow,  he 
waited  for  spring  to  unlock  this  retreat  and  set 
the  tree  buds  free.  For  here,  though  the  water 
was  still,  he  heard  the  rush  of  the  Meuse.  The 
little  wood-violet  lifted  its  white  hood  here,  as 
in  the  woods  of  Anseremne ;  and  here  at  nesting- 
time  rose  the  song  of  the  thrush  as  the  lark  had 
risen  from  the  fields  of  Freyr.  Here,  too,  was 
the  river,  —  the  open,  magnanimous  river,  — 
where  the  sun  searched  at  noon,  and  the  stars 
hid  at  nignt ;  that  had  hollowed  with  such  labor 
its  track  through  the  flint  of  the  hills  and  the 
tangle  of  forest,  barring  the  way ;  hurrying, 
hurrying,  impatient  of  restraint,  angry  with 
bounds,  all  to  rest  at  last,  full  of  stars  and 


94  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

clouds,  like  a  soul  full  of  thoughts  and  dreams, 
at  the  end  of  its  course  near  the  sea.  And  here 
were  the  soaring  shafts  of  the  trees,  that  had 
pushed  with  such  toil  through  the  cover  of 
mould  and  tangle  of  grasses  barring  the  way  — 
climbing,  climbing  fast,  like  a  soul  that  spurns 
its  clay,  all  to  rest  at  last  where  the  vision  is 
wide  and  free,  full  of  murmuring  sounds  and 
sighs ;  like  a  soul  at  the  end  of  its  flight,  full 
of  wonder  and  mystery. 

Here,  on  the  morning  Rowan  had  fixed  for 
the  painting  of  his  cousin's  portrait,  he  sat 
where  Mabel  had  found  him,  a  book  spread 
open  upon  his  knee.  His  books  were  free  from 
annotations,  but  full  of  scraps  and  odd  ends  of 
paper,  covered  with  the  hieroglyphics  of  a  quill 
pen,  whose  splutterings  and  scratchings  often 
made  Elize  put  her  fingers  to  her  ears,  and  for 
which  he  carried  in  his  pocket  a  small  wooden 
vial  of  ink.  This  morning,  however,  the  volume 
on  his  knee  did  not  seem  to  hold  his  attention ; 
for  he  looked  over  its  open  page,  a  large  fore 
finger  marking  the  place  where  his  thoughts  had 
last  broken  from  the  traces,  rousing  himself  at  in 
tervals  with  the  start  of  a  schoolboy  who  dreams 
over  his  task.  Suddenly  a  voice  said,  — 
"•  Come,  give  this  morning  to  me." 
He  looked  up  and  saw  Elize  leaning  on  the 
gate  in  the  wall. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  95 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ?  "  he  asked,  lower 
ing  his  glasses  over  his  nose  and  laying  his  pen 
in  his  book. 

"  Give  it  back  to  you,  Sir  Miser.  I  do  not 
steal,  I  borrow.  We  will  go  down  the  river, 
and  you  shall  tell  me  what  you  are  reading  in 
that  book  of  yours ;  and  we  will  come  back  by 
the  meadow.  See  ! "  and  she  moved  her  foot 
through  the  grass  which  grew  about  the  gate ; 
"  the  dew  is  gone.  Come." 

Schonberg  closed  his  book,  and  put  on  his 
wide-brimmed  hat. 

She  led  the  way  down  the  narrow  path,  which 
wound  like  an  Indian  trail  along  the  bank,  stop 
ping  now  and  then  for  a  leaf  of  crimson  and 
green,  —  those  first  single  skirmishers  which 
winter  deploys  in  the  autumn  woods. 

"  Where  were  you  all  day  yesterday,  little 
girl  ?  "  asked  he,  following  behind. 

"  Yesterday  ?  I  was  reading.  I  could  do 
nothing  till  I  had  finished  my  book." 

"  And  you  finished  it?  " 

"  Every  word." 

"  What  was  it,  —  a  novel  ?  Tell  me  about 
it.  You  liked  it  ?  " 

"  Perversely,"  she  replied,  emphatically,  "  for 
the  bad  people  made  me  cry  with  sympathy, 
whereas  the  others,  one  especially,  who  was  a 
saint,  —  one  ought  to  like  saints,"  —  and  Elize 


96  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

turned  with  a  gesture  which  said  it  was  impos 
sible. 

"  Bah !  "  said  Schonberg.  "  Saints  for  heaven, 
but  for  earth,  heroes." 

"  But,  uncle  "  — 

"  Do  you  want  to  admire  some  one  ?  "  Schon-! 
berg  continued,  shaking  his  cane  in  the  air ; 
"•  for  that  he  may  have  faults,  provided  only  he 
has  a  character." 

"  If  you  do  not  allow  me  to  worship  the 
saints,  how  can  I  ever  wish  to  become  one  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  little  girl,  strive,  —  strive 
hard.  What  we  admire  is  the  desire.  Good 
ness  is  not  a  birthright." 

"  I  wish  it  were,"  said  Elize. 

"You  wish  to  begin  where  Alexander  left 
off." 

"  I  wish  to  begin  even  with  Seraphine." 

"  Where  is  Seraphine  ?  "  said  Schonberg,  sud 
denly  stopping  short  in  the  middle  of  the  path. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  Elize  reproachfully,  "  you 
have  only  just  thought  of  her  I  " 

"  Let  us  go  back,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  useless  ;  she  will  not  come." 

"  Will  not  come  ?     Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Elize,  with  a  little 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  She  hath  bought  five 
yoke  of  oxen ;  I  pray  thee  have  her  excused." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Schonberg. 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  97 

They  turned  into  the  lane,  Elize  walking  by 
his  side. 

"  And  your  book ;  you  seemed  very  much  in 
terested  in  it." 

"  I  laid  it  aside  when  you  asked  me  to." 

"  To  please  me." 

"  No,  to  please  myself." 

"  Oh,  but  I  had  rather  it  had  been  to  please 
me.  You  see  I  am  not  yet  a  saint.  I  even  like 
to  tyrannize  a  little." 

"  Begin  now ;  let  us  see  what  you  would  do." 

"Well,  I  would  first  burn  up  that  yellow 
dressing-gown,  which  gives  you  the  air  of  a  man 
darin." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Schonberg ;  "  I  have  never  seen 
one." 

"  And  I  would  order  you,  on  penalty  of  the 
kiss  which  you  hate,  to  wear  the  new  one  Sera- 
phine  made  for  you." 

"  I  have  laid  it  away  honorably  in  lavender 
twigs,"  said  Schonberg,  somewhat  confused  by 
this  unexpected  attack. 

"  The  honor  of  a  gift  is  in  its  use,  sir.  Shall 
I  go  on?" 

"  By  all  means." 

She  drew  a  little  closer,  and  slipped  her  arm 
through  his. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  foreseeing  some 
thing  important. 


98  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  My  courage  fails  me,  —  I  play  the  tyrant  so 
seldom.  I  think,  after  all,  I  will  leave  it  to 
Seraphine." 

"  What !  is  it  so  terrible  ?  " 

"  We  even  dream  of  it,"  said  Elize,  looking 
up  into  his  face.  "  When  one  dreams,  it  begins 
to  be  serious." 

"  You  improve  fast,  little  girl.  By  dint  of 
practice  you  will  make  an  excellent  Nero." 

"  If  you  will  come,  this  evening  after  tea,  we 
will  tell  you." 

"  But  I  am  going  out  to  dine  this  evening," 
replied  Schonberg. 

"  Well,  afterwards,  if  not  too  late,  —  will 
you?" 

They  were  just  passing  Rowan's  gate  when 
some  one  called,  — 

"  Dr.  Schonberg  !  " 

They  turned  and  saw  Gladys. 

She  had  come  on  this  the  morning  fixed  for 
her  first  sitting,  and  had  found  her  tenant's  door 
open,  as  also  that  which  led  from  the  hall  into 
the  adjoining  room  ;  but  no  one  had  answered 
the  bell,  tinkling  faintly  from  some  remote  place 
out  of  sight  and  then  subsiding  into  silence. 
She  had  rung  again,  a  little  impatiently,  and 
the  bell,  like  an  echo,  had  answered  her  back 
with  an  impatient  jangle.  She  had  stood  for  a 
moment  with  her  dress  in  one  hand,  half  de- 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  99 

cided  to  return,  but  the  sun  was  hot,  and  the 
open  door  was  a  temptation.  If  only  Mab  had 
been  with  her,  the  indiscretion  would  have  been 
divided  by  two.  However,  she  must  get  out  of 
the  sun,  against  which  even  her  parasol  was 
scant  protection.  One  more  ring,  —  one  might 
fancy  the  bell  was  angry,  and  had  fairly  turned 
over  in  its  rage,  —  then  silence  again.  She 
advanced  to  the  threshold  of  the  inner  door. 
"  Rowan  !  "  Then  she  went  in. 

She  swept  the  room  with  that  critical  glance 
which  is  given  an  apartment  whose  master  or 
mistress  is  not  there  to  defend  it.  It  was  evi 
dently  not  one  which  had  acquired  its  posses 
sions  during  long  years  of  occupancy,  for  they 
had  the  air  rather  of  temporary  guests  than  of 
old  familiars.  Still  it  was  a  pleasant  room,  and 
it  contained  objects  which  attracted  her  eye. 
There  was,  for  example,  before  her  a  chair  whose 
utility  the  carver  had  so  disguised  by  the  caprices 
of  his  decorative  art,  that  she  paused,  fascinated, 
without  thinking  of  sitting  down.  Above  her 
head,  too,  hung  a  curious  bronze  lamp  inlaid 
with  silver,  and  at  the  further  door  a  curtain 
overwrought  with  arabesque.  But  that  which 
most  attracted  her  was  an  easel,  half  hidden  be 
hind  a  screen  in  the  corner.  There  was  a  green 
curtain  before  the  picture  standing  upon  it,  and 
in  an  impulse  of  curiosity  she  crossed  the  room 


100  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

and  drew  it  aside.  Whatever  it  was  she  saw 
there,  it  plunged  her  in  deep  thought ;  and  then 
seemed  suddenly  to  remind  her  that  curiosity, 
though  a  surface  passion  easily  satisfied,  is  not 
always  innocent,  and  often  pregnant  with  con 
sequences  ;  for  she  abandoned  her  explorations 
and  retreated  into  the  sun.  She  felt,  however, 
less  inclined  than  before  to  give  up  her  appoint 
ment,  and  was  proposing  to  herself  to  find  some 
shady  spot  where  she  should  wait,  when  she  saw 
Dr.  Schonberg  and  Elize. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  cousin,  Mr.  Ferguson  ?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  smile  of  recognition  for  Elize. 

"  No,"  replied  Schonberg,  taking  off  his  hat, 
"  but  we  heard  his  dog  barking  on  the  river." 

"  How  provoking ! "  said  Gladys,  looking 
down  the  lane.  "  I  wanted  so  much  to  see 
him." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  for  many  years,"  said 
Schonberg,  replacing  his  hat,  "  but,  if  you  wish 
me,"  —  her  look  was  so  appealing,  —  "I  will 
walk  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  and,  if  he  is 
there  "  — 

"Oh,  how  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Gladys. 
"  I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  any  ti'ouble "  — 
But  Schonberg  was  already  in  motion.  "  Will 
you  come  in  and  wait,  Miss  Fleming?  "  she  said 
to  Elize,  opening  the  gate. 

They  walked  up  the  narrow  path,  lined  with 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  101 

lilacs,  and  sat  down  on  the  broad  stone  step  be 
fore  the  door,  chatting  together.  Once  Gladys 
went  down  to  the  gate,  but  no  one  was  in  sight. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  in ;  it  is  so 
warm.  Have  you  met  my  cousin  Rowan  ? " 
she  asked,  as  they  entered  the  room. 

"  No,"  said  Elize,  looking  about  her. 

"  How  cool  it  is  indoors,"  Gladys  said.  "Sit 
down  here,  Miss  Fleming." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Elize,  bending  over  the  figures 
with  folded  wings  which  supported  the  arms  of 
the  chair,  "  I  should  not  dare  to." 

Gladys  laughed,  and  made  room  for  her  on 
the  lounge.  "  An  artist  is  always  picking  up 
pretty  things,  —  except  fans,"  she  said,  impro 
vising  one  with  her  handkerchief.  "  See  the 
tapestry  on  that  screen.  From  its  crimson  dye 
I  think  it  must  be  very  old  Flemish." 

Elize  crossed  the  room  to  examine  its  network 
of  strange  leaves  and  legendary  animals.  Sera- 
phine  was  skillful  in  embroidery.  "  I  wish  my 
sister,"  she  said,  "  could  "  — 

Elize  stopped  abruptly.  Behind  the  screen 
was  the  picture  which  Gladys  had  left  uncov 
ered. 

It  was  only  the  picture  of  a  woman,  advan 
cing  under  the  trees  of  a  wood.  But  to  this 
woman  it  seemed  as  if  the  artist  had  wished  to 
sacrifice  everything.  From  out  the  background 


102  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

of  uncertain  shadows  which  surrounded  her, 
which  deepened  and  receded  as  the  eye  sought 
to  penetrate  them,  she  came  forth  as  from  the 
dreams  of  a  lifetime.  Except  the  crimson  of 
her  dress,  a  severity  of  coloring,  an  indistinct 
ness  and  pallor  of  touch,  made  this  picture  in 
deed  a  dream  rather  than  a  portrait,  and  before 
it  Elize  stood  spellbound,  as  if  Seraphine  her 
self  had  answered  her  thought  and  risen  before 
her  in  person. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  walk  and  a  knock  on 
the  door,  but  Elize  heard  neither. 

"  Your  cousin  was  on  the  river,"  Schonberg 
was  saying  to  Gladys ;  "he  will  be  here  pres 
ently." 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  Dr.  Schonberg," 
said  Gladys ;  "  will  you  not  come  in  and  wait  a 
few  moments  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  but  if  Miss  Fleming  "  — 

At  the  sound  of  her  name  Elize  turned.  There 
was  such  a  look  of  wonder  and  surprise  upon 
her  face  that  even  Gladys  was  embarrassed ;  but 
only  for  an  instant. 

"  Do  wait,"  she  said  to  Schonberg ;  "  I  will 
go  to  the  gate  and  tell  my  cousin  how  his  castle 
has  been  captured." 

"  Come ! "  said  Elize  in  a  whisper,  after  she 
had  gone.  He  followed  her  beckoning  finger 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  Seraphine  ! 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  103 

He  knew  that  face  well,  though  joy  had  trans- 
figiired  it.  From  those  dark  eyes  it  appealed  to 
him,  yet  threatened  him.  If  he  had  moved,  it 
would  have  been  to  draw  instinctively  the  cur 
tain  before  them,  as  if  he  had  violated  the  secrets 
of  a  Vestal  Virgin.  What  was  she  doing  here  ? 
Who  was  this  man  that  he  should  paint  a  world 
in  her  eye,  and  mould  her  face  to  his  fancy  ? 
But  for  Elize  he  might  have  remained  standing 
there  till  Gladys  had  returned  with  Rowan.  But 
she  put  her  hand  within  his  and  drew  him  to 
the  door. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  wait  ? "  exclaimed 
Gladys,  with  so  genuine  a  surprise  and  regret  in 
her  blue  eyes  that  Elize  was  disarmed. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  replied. 

There  was  a  shade  of  embarrassment  in  her 
voice.  But  why?  after  all.  She  was  not  the 
culprit.  Not  Gladys  even  —  perhaps.  There 
was  very  likely  no  culprit  at  all  except  that  Har 
lequin  Chance,  that  had  gotten  hold  of  the  reins 
for  an  instant. 

This  was  precisely  what  Gladys  was  saying  to 
herself,  as  she  walked  back  to  the  house,  though 
she  knew  that  it  was  from  her  hands  the  reins 
had  been  stolen.  She  had  a  little  dispute  with 
herself  as  to  whether  she  should  draw  that  inno 
cent  green  curtain,  which  had  first  fired  her  cu 
riosity,  over  the  picture,  and  made  up  her  mind 


104  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

very  decidedly  that  she  would  not  —  for  if  Gladys 
was  curious,  she  was  also  courageous ;  and  it 
was  in  the  midst  of  these  reflections  that  Nestor 
bounded  into  the  room,  followed  by  Rowan. 


XVIII. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  cousin," 
said  Rowan,  "  but,  to  be  truthful,  I  had  forgot 
ten  our  engagement  entirely." 

"  And,  to  be  equally  truthful,  I  have  not  been 
waiting ;  that  is,  I  found  here  so  much  to  in 
terest  me  that  I  had  forgotten  it." 

"Ah!  "  said  Rowan,  standing  his  paddle,  still 
wet,  in  the  corner  and  beginning  his  prepara 
tions  for  Gladys'  picture.  She  watched  him  with 
interest,  while  Nestor,  for  whom  these  prepara 
tions  meant  that  play  was  over,  stretched  himself 
on  the  rug  for  sleep. 

"  Don't  you  and  Nestor  ever  get  tired  of  eaeh 
other  ?  "  asked  Gladys. 

"  Sometimes,"  replied  Rowan. 

"  Why  don't  you  soar  higher,  cousin?  I  told 
you  the  other  day  that  it  was  not  good  to  be 
alone." 

"  Society  is  not  company,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  go  on.     Finish  your  quotation." 

"  Was  I  making  one  ?  " 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  105 

"  Oh.  fie  !  the  bad  memory  !  "  said  Gladys,  sit 
ting  down  in  the  chair  where  Elize  had  not  dared 
to.  "  You  omit  the  saving  clause.  '  Society  is 
not  company  where  there  is  no  love.' " 

*'  Oh  !  "  said  Rowan  again,  indifferently. 

"  Apropos  of  portraits,  you  quote  very  aptly," 
and  Gladys  played  with  her  parasol ;  "  there  is 
still  more  which  you  forget." 

"  Repeat  it,  cousin ;  it  will  amuse  me." 

"  Don't  you  remember  ?  '  Society  is  not  com 
pany,  and  faces  are  but  pictures  in  a  gallery '  — 
where  there  is  no  love,  you  understand.  But 
with  love,  pictures  will  even  take  the  place  of 
faces." 

Rowan  made  no  reply,  and  went  on  with  his 
preparations. 

"  I  am  curious  to  see  what  you  will  make 
of  my  portrait,"  continued  Gladys,  "since  you 
never  paint  them." 

"  No,  never." 

Gladys  smiled.     "Not  even  from  memory?" 

"  Memory  cannot  paint  portraits,  cousin  ;  it  is 
too  forgetful." 

"  And  what  do  you  intend  to  make  for  me,  —  a 
photograph  ?  I  do  not  wish  one.  I  come  to  the 
artist  for  a  little  magic,  the  magic  of  perspective. 
Naked  truth  is  odious.  Can't  you  dress  it  up  a 
little,  —  disguise  it  in  fable,  for  example,  as  the 
poets  do?  I  have  not  come  to  be  copied." 


106  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  For  what  then,  —  to  be  flattered  ?  " 

"  Yes,  delicately,  if  I  have  any  fugitive  excel 
lences  which  you  can  seize.  A  photograph  is  an 
attitude,  an  expression,  a  mood.  I  have  a  hun 
dred  such,  moods  and  photographs  both." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it." 

"But  I  have  one  which  underlies  them  all. 
One  gesture  —  everybody  has  one  —  worth  pages 
of  analysis." 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  Well,  search,  and  find  it." 

"  Ho,  ho  I  "  said  Rowan,  sitting  down  before 
his  easel.  "  You  are  exacting.  It  seems  the 
portrait  is  to  be  a  judgment." 

"  Certainly.  Who  cares  for  the  reflection  un 
conscious  mirrors  make  ?  there  is  only  one  worth 
looking  at,  that  of  the  human  eye." 

"  Stand  up,  cousin ;  let  me  look  at  you." 

"  One  would  imagine  you  were  a  Greek  mas 
ter  inspecting  an  athlete,"  she  said,  walking  be 
fore  him.  "  Do  I  walk  badly  ?  " 

"  No,  not  ordinarily,"  said  Rowan,  "  unless 
when,  like  Montesquieu's  wife,  you  try  to  walk 
better,  and  then  you  limp  a  little." 

"  Oh,  Rowan !  " 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  from  this  exclamation 
that  Gladys'  feelings  were  really  hurt.  She 
knew  very  well  that  if  certain  people  descended 
to  flattery,  it  was  because  they  despised. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  107 

She  took  her  seat  again  in  the  high-backed 
chair  whose  rigid  outlines  the  sculptor  had  left 
unbroken,  though  every  surface  had  its  garland 
and  scroll.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  which 
lay  in  her  lap  with  her  parasol.  Rowan  was 
already  at  work,  and  what  he  saw,  as  he  looked 
up  from  time  to  time,  were  some  very  graceful 
profiles  outlined  against  the  black  panel,  and, 
between  the  blue  velvet  band  in  her  hair  and  the 
blue  silk  balls  which  fringed  her  parasol,  two 
blue  eyes  that  could  talk  faster  than  lips.  For 
therein,  when  Gladys  chose,  one  could  see  at  a 
single  look  the  dance  and  the  flight  of  all  that 
troop  of  lighter  thoughts  and  feelings  which  per 
ish  before  they  reach  the  lips. 

Rowan  was  never  sure  whether  he  was  at  his 
best  or  worst  with  Gladys,  although  conscious  he 
was  not  altogether  his  true  self.  For  some 
reason  he  threw  up  the  trenches  of  an  unnatural 
dignity  and  reserve  in  her  presence,  as  at  the 
approach  of  a  foe.  And  yet  Gladys  was  not 
an  enemy.  Indeed,  after  her  marriage,  he  had 
come  to  believe  that  her  Aunt  Isabel,  who  had 
upbraided  him  in  her  satirical  fashion  for  short 
sightedness  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Eu 
rope,  had  herself  been  deceived  by  what  on  Gla 
dys'  part  was  merely  a  delight  in  capricious  sor 
ties  on  well-disposed  neighbors.  There  was  so 
much  in  his  cousin  he  liked,  that  he  would  have 


108  THE   WIND    OF  DESTINY. 

liked  her  had  she  permitted  him  to,  and  it  was 
more  natural  to  him  to  treat  the  world  as  it  ovt^ht 
to  be  than  to  admit  it  what  he  found  it.  The 
supposition  which  formed  the  basis  of  Aunt  Isa 
bel's  satire  was  so  disquieting,  that  he  had  never 
been  willing  to  give  it  even  the  consideration 
necessary  to  refute  it.  Had  not  Gladys  herself 
refuted  it  ?  If  she  had  really  loved  him,  —  what 
an  idea !  She  loved  to  tease  him.  Whence 
comes  the  pure  untainted  flower  of  love  ?  From 
the  germ  of  a  pure  untainted  nature  only  ?  or  is 
the  seed  dropped  from  heaven,  to  bear  flowers  or 
thorns,  as  the  soil  and  climate  into  which  it  falls 
shall  determine  ?  In  one  case  we  ^can  tread  the 
thistles  under  foot  without  compunction  ;  in  the 
other,  every  struggling  thorn  by  the  trodden 
highway  is  worth  a  sigh. 

"  What !  have  you  commenced  already  ?  " 

"  Sit  still,"  said  Rowan. 

Gladys  laughed.  "  That  is  what  I  say  to  Mab. 
Poor  child,  what  martyrdom !  But  you  are  not 
going  to  paint  me  with  this  dress,  in  this  chair?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly." 

"  Then  it  is  to  be  the  naked  truth  after  all. 
But  it  seems  to  me  I  shall  look  like  a  fright.  I 
ought  to  wear  a  close-fitting  bodice  of  Persian 
silk,  with  a  hip-girdle  and  sleeveless  tunic,  a 
steeple  head-dress  with  floating  veil,  and  pointed 
shoes — something  Gothic  and  mediaeval." 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  109 

"On  the  contrary,  you  will  be  all  the  more 
effective  as  you  are.  You  desired  a  fable,  and 
we  shall  have  one,  —  the  nineteenth  in  the  four 
teenth  century." 

She  obeyed  the  order  to  sit  still  better  than 
Mab,  on  the  whole,  only  twisting  the  silk  balls 
of  her  parasol.  Apparently  she  had  some  divert 
ing  thoughts.  Occasionally,  when  Rowan's  eye 
rested  on  her  critically,  she  frowned ;  and  once 
she  begged  permission  for  the  nineteenth  century 
to  yawn  behind  its  parasol,  though  in  reality  the 
yawn  was  hardly  more  than  a  sigh. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  something, 
Rowan,"  she  said,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  If  the  duty  is  disagreeable,  defer  it,"  said  he. 

"I  was  guilty  of  an  indiscretion  this  morning, 
and  it  troubles  my  conscience." 

"Who  told  you  that  you  had  a  conscience, 
cousin  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  quickly.  She  liked  a  little 
badinage,  but  not  serious  teasing. 

"  You  are  not  a  very  encouraging  confessor," 
she  said. 

"  What  are  the  requisites  ?  First,  attention, 
of  course  ;  well,  I  am  all  attention." 

"No;  first  of  all,  curiosity." 

"  Well,  I  am  all  curiosity  also." 

"  Then  you  will  not  be  vexed,  for  curiosity 
was  my  indiscretion." 


110  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  That  does  not  follow,"  said  Rowan,  looking 
up  at  her.  "  I  reserve  the  right  to  be  vexed. 
Or  is  absolution  a  prerequisite  for  confession  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  What  I  tell  you,  I  tell 
you  for  ray  own  satisfaction,"  said  Gladys  with 
a  dignity  that  was  very  becoming.  "  When  I 
came  here  this  morning  your  door  was  open, 
and  I  went  in." 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"Being  in,  I  looked  about." 

"  Naturally." 

"  The  rest  was  chance  "  — 

"Take  care,"  interrupted  Rowan,  "your  con 
fession  is  becoming  an  explanation." 

"  I  confess  to  an  impulse  of  curiosity,"  ex 
claimed  Gladys  impetuously.  "  I  looked  at  the 
picture  because  I  did  not  know  what  it  was," 
she  continued  with  the  naivett  of  passion,  "  and 
Miss  Fleming  saw  it  because  I  had  left  it  un 
covered,  and  because  she  could  not  help  it.  If 
you  insist  upon  fastening  all  the  remote  conse 
quences  upon  the  —  the  original  culprit  —  find 
the  painter." 

"  In  other  words,  the  confession  has  become 
an  indictment,"  said  Rowan,  quietly. 

"  I  say  to  you  frankly,  Rowan,  that  I  am 
sorry  for  my  indiscretion  ;  and  I  say  also  that  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  a  serious  one  till  I  saw  the 
surprise  on  Miss  Fleming's  face.  Is  it  serious  ?  " 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  HI 

She  asked  this  question  as  one  shoots  an  ar 
row,  with  a  following  glance  at  the  mark. 

"  Gladys,"  said  Rowan,  "  you  make  a  confes 
sion  and  then  seek  to  extort  one.  I  have  not 
the  honor  to  know  Miss  Fleming,  and  your 
curiosity  "  — 

"I  am  not  curious,"  she  replied  coldly. 
"  When  one  has  caused  annoyance,  one  likes  to 
know  the  extent  of  it."  She  rose  from  her  seat 
and  began  to  put  on  her  gloves.  "  When  shall 
I  come  again  ?  Or  are  we  children,  and  not  to 
speak  to  each  other  for  the  present  ?  " 

Rowan  laughed. 

"  Some  people  laugh  when  they  are  angry," 
said  Gladys. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  and,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I 
am  going  to  walk  back  with  you." 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I  prefer  you  should  not," 
said  Gladys,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  what  I  wish  to,  now," 
said  Rowan.  "  In  justice  to  Miss  Fleming  it 
should  be  said  that  she  knows  no  more  of  her 
picture  than  you  did  this  morning.  I  have  never 
met  her,  and  have  only  seen  her  once  —  but "  — 
Gladys'  heart  fluttered  in  the  grasp  of  her  will 
like  a  bird  held  in  the  hand  —  "  but  —  that 
makes  no  difference  ;  I  love  her.  Shall  we  still 
befriends,  Gladys?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  said,  looking  him 
in  the  face. 


112  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  We  are  not 
children." 

Fear  and  pride,  indignation  and  appeal,  chased 
each  other  like  shadows  in  the  mist  of  her  eyes. 

"  No  —  worse  than  children,"  she  said,  — 
"toys!" 

XIX. 

When  the  letter  announcing  Rowan's  return 
was  handed  to  Gladys,  she  herself  was  surprised 
at  the  effect  it  produced.  Although  eager  to 
know  its  contents,  she  had  allowed  it  to  lie  an 
hour  unopened  upon  her  dressing-table  while 
finishing  her  toilette,  in  a  state  of  pleasurable  ex 
citement  which  she  did  not  seek  to  analyze  lest 
it  should  come  to  an  end.  She  had  gone  down 
upon  the  terrace  to  select  some  roses,  and  had 
returned  to  her  glass  to  fasten  them,  one  white 
and  one  yellow,  at  her  throat,  before  taking  the 
letter  from  its  resting-place  between  her  fan 
and  laces.  Even  then  she  had  put  it  in  her 
pocket,  and  seated  herself  at  the  window  with 
her  wools  ;  for  Gladys  was  veritably  industri 
ous.  She  had  finally  risen  abruptly,  like  one 
who  finds  himself  going  to  sleep  when  he  does 
not  wish  to,  and  laying  aside  her  work  had  gone 
down  to  superintend  the  gardener  who  was  set 
ting  out  plants  underneath  the  window ;  then, 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  113 

while  giving  her  directions,  she  broke  the  seal  and 
read  the  letter.  Thereupon  she  went  up  to  the 
large  southern  chamber,  the  pleasantest  room  in 
the  house,  to  say  good-morning  to  her  Aunt  Isabel. 

She  had  been  brought  up  in  the  care  of  her 
aunt,  and  it  was  for  this  reason  among  others 
that  the  latter,  who  was  a  firm  believer  in  the 
theory  of  compensation,  insisted  upon  finishing 
her  days  with  Gladys.  The  real  feelings  which 
these  two  entertained  for  each  other  were  not  at 
first  sight  apparent  to  the  ordinary  observer,  for 
Gladys'  aversion  was  streaked  with  a  variety  of 
other  sentiments,  such  as  gratitude,  respect,  and 
admiration ;  while  her  aunt  had  aversions  for  so 
many  things  and  people,  that  one  did  not  stop  to 
connect  them  with  any  one  object  or  individual 
in  particular.  It  was  not  altogether  infirmity 
which  led  her  to  sit  so  much  alone  in  the  great 
arm-chair  where  she  ate,  read,  talked,  and  some 
times  even  slept.  She  was  like  an  old  eagle  in 
its  cage,  disdaining  both  bars  and  liberty. 

There  went  on  continually  a  sort  of  duel  be 
tween  her  and  Gladys.  At  seventy,  one  does  not 
like  to  be  contradicted  by  a  child.  The  old 
lady  had  been  a  "  child  "  herself.  Now,  in  her 
arm-chair,  she  was  the  spectator,  critical,  as 
must  be  all  ex-puppets  for  whom  the  tragedy 
has  become  a  comedy.  She  was,  Gladys  avowed, 
cross,  kind-hearted,  selfish,  generous,  by  turns ; 


114  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

a  kind  of  crater,  which  one  did  not  care  to 
approach  too  closely,  bursting  forth  momentarily 
in  eruptions  of  rebuke,  irony,  and  good-nature, 
fierce,  but  soon  over.  She  scolded,  pardoned, 
derided,  and  petted  Gladys  with  equal  pleasure, 
as  if  the  latter  reminded  her  of  a  former  self, 
which  she  now  held  off  at  arms'  length,  as  she 
did  the  world  in  general,  for  alternate  praise  and 
disapproval. 

Gladys  brought  her  aunt  some  of  the  roses 
she  had  gathered,  and  opened  her  budget  of 
morning  news.  The  plants  for  the  beds  at  the 
foot  of  the  terrace  wall  had  arrived ;  she  was 
going  to  buy  a  pony  for  Mabel,  —  and,  by  the 
way,  here  was  a  letter  from  Rowan ;  and  taking 
it  from  her  pocket  she  laid  it  on  the  little  table 
which,  with  its  crystal  bottle  of  salts,  accompa 
nied  the  great  chair  about  the  room  like  a  satel 
lite.  After  lingering  awhile  for  the  comment 
which  did  not  come,  she  finally  left  the  old 
lady  with  the  morning  papers,  to  which  she  was 
devoted. 

Although  Rowan's  letter  was  a  very  brief  one, 
later  in  the  day  she  desired,  for  some  reason,  to 
read  it  again,  and  sent  her  maid  for  it,  with 
some  fresh  flowers  from  among  the  new  arrivals ; 
but  received  from  her  aunt  the  reply  that  she 
had  not  yet  read  it. 

Thereafter,  till  Rowan  came,  Gladys  had  reso- 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  115 

lutely  put  away  any  thoughts  this  letter  had 
suggested  ;  and  afterwards,  if  any  questions  had 
been  raised  by  his  arrival,  she  determinedly 
ignored  them.  It  is  so  easy  for  the  mind  to 
postpone  action,  to  play  the  neutral,  and  take  its 
naps  of  indifference.  But  while  it  hesitates  or 
sleeps,  the  heart,  like  a  pendulum,  swings  on 
between  hate  and  love ;  for  it  to  live  is  to  feel, 
to  remain  indifferent  is  to  cease  to  beat.  And 
if  Gladys,  walking  home  from  Rowan's  that 
morning  of  her  first  sitting,  was  hotly  indignant, 
it  was  with  this  heart  which,  never  wholly  sub 
dued,  waits  the  opportune  moment,  acts  and  de 
cides  while  the  mind  hesitates  and  reserves  its 
verdict.  What  a  foolish  thing  she  had  said ! 
Toys?  She  had  never  been  any  one's  toy  — 
except  that  of  chance.  If  he  had  kept  his 
appointment  —  and,  reviewing  the  incidents  of 
the  morning,  her  indignation  rose  hotter  against 
chance,  against  circumstance  that  does  not  wait 
for  decisions,  and  lays  the  heart  bare  with  a 
merciless  hand.  She  was  angry  too  at  her  in 
ability  to  go  back  to  where  she  was  the  day 
before.  If  she  had  not  cared  to  see  what  was 
going  on  in  her  heart,  all  the  more  was  she 
angry  to  have  it  thrust  under  her  eyes  by  a 
merely  fortuitous  concourse  of  events.  As  she 
went  up  the  terrace  steps,  the  very  roses  she  had 
set  out  with  the  gardener,  but  a  week  ago, 


116  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINT. 

seemed  to  say  to  her,  "  You  cannot  see  us  change, 
but  look,  we  have  grown  !  " 

Anxiety,  however,  that  foe  to  good  looks  and 
good  manners,  was  something  not  to  be  tolerated 
for  an  instant.  It  can  make  us  more  wretched 
than  circumstances  warrant,  and,  on  the  theory 
that  happiness  consists  only  in  thinking  our 
selves  less  miserable  than  we  really  are,  Gladys 
set  all  her  will  power  to  work  in  forgetting  every 
thing  but  the  one  fact,  that  Dr.  Schonberg  was 
to  dine  with  her  that  evening.  She  filled  the 
remainder  of  her  day  full  of  occupation,  that 
blessed  sea  of  rest  for  troubles  of  all  kinds, 
singing  to  herself  —  she  had  no  voice  —  as  she 
went  about,  from  the  dining-room  to  the  terrace, 
and  from  the  terrace  to  her  chamber,  all  the 
latent  fire  pent  up  and  covered  over. 


XX. 

Although  in  itself  a  guest  at  dinner  was  an 
insignificant  event  for  Gladys,  it  afforded  her  in 
this  instance  a  welcome  diversion.  Further 
more,  she  was  really  interested  in  Dr.  Schon 
berg.  In  the  presence  of  this  man,  hidden  away 
in  the  hermitage  of  Ashurst,  she  imagined  her 
self  face  to  face  with  a  mystery,  and  was  not 
one  to  rest  content  with  mere  surmises.  She 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  117 

liked  a  difficult,  a  delicate  task,  —  the  feeling 
tentatively  for  the  corde  sensible,  that  sensitive 
nerve  of  resentment  or  bitterness  which  should 
put  her  on  the  right  track,  —  and  was  quite 
herself  again  when,  on  the  way  to  dinner,  Schon- 
berg  felt  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  year  the 
pressure  of  a  white  hand  on  the  sleeve  of  the 
black  coat  which  fitted  him  so  awkwardly. 

They  returned  to  the  terrace,  after  dinner  was 
over,  where  Gladys  devoted  herself  assiduously 
to  her  work,  but  without  detriment  to  the  con 
versation  ;  while  Mab,  fishing  over  the  balcony 
with  a  worsted  skein,  which  Jack  had  attached 
to  his  cane,  contributed  a  domestic  coloring  to 
the  scene. 

"  Do  you  like  America,  Dr.  Schonberg?  " 

"I  have  lived  here  a  good  many  years," 
said  he. 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  good  judge,  then." 

"  Ashurst  does  not  furnish  a  very  broad  basis 
for  an  estimate,"  he  replied. 

"It's  a  very  good  sample,"  said  Gladys,  hold 
ing  up  the  skeins  and  matching  her  colors. 
"  Places  may  differ  a  great  deal  in  a  country, 
like  a  patch-quilt ;  but  the  general  effect  of  one 
corner  is  the  same  as  that  of  any  other.  Besides, 
to  stay  in  one  place  is  not  necessarily  to  like 
it,  Dr.  Schonberg." 

"  I  stay  here  because  I  wish  to,"  he  remarked 
laconically. 


118  THE  WIXD   OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  had  a  delightful  visit  from  Miss  Fleming 
and  her  sister,"  continued  Gladys,  sliding  from, 
one  topic  to  another.  "  There  is  something  very 
distinguSe  about  Miss  Fleming." 

What  Gladys  meant  was  quite  true.  Sera- 
phine  had  more  presence  than  Elize,  a  something 
marking  her  off  from  the  myriads  one  meets 
in  life ;  so  many  rustling  leaves  swept  by  on  the 
wind.  But  Gladys'  adjective,  as  one  belonging 
to  the  world  of  fashion  and  manners,  made 
Schonberg  wince,  and  he  never  could  beat  the 
cover  of  conversation  without  starting  the  game. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he  ;  "  souls  have  distinc 
tion,  but  are  not  distinguSes" 

"Has  she  not  a  good  deal  of  pride?"  asked 
Gladys,  smiling.  "  Pride,  you  know,  is  world- 
fc?» 

"  Since  the  ark,"  answered  Schonberg,  "  every 
thing  goes  in  pairs.  There  is  the  pride  of  self 
love,  and  that  of  self-respect." 

Gladys  lifted  her  eyes  and  inspected  his  half- 
averted  face  with  the  frankness  of  Mabel. 

"  At  all  events  she  is  very  attractive,  and  I 
wish  to  know  her.  Is  it  so  very  hard  ?  " 

He  did  not  like  to  discuss  Seraphine,  espe 
cially  after  the  incident  of  the  morning,  which 
seemed  to  him  to  be  connected  in  some  indefin 
able  way  with  the  conversation.  "  Women  are 
not  very  easy  to  understand,"  he  said  evasively. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  119 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  "  we  are  not  so  naive  as 
you  are ;  or  perhaps,"  she  added,  with  a  quick 
glance,  "  you  think  nothing  can  be  made  out  of 
nothing." 

"  That  's  what  Lear  said  to  the  fool,"  an 
swered  Schonberg,  amused  at  the  swift  flow  of 
her  thoughts. 

"  I  forgot  there  was  a  fool  in  Lear,"  replied 
Gladys  meditatively,  lifting  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Necessarily.  Without  fools  there  would  be 
no  tragedies." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  and  a  malicious  light 
filtered  through  her  lashes.  "  Fools  and  women, 
you  mean." 

"  They  are  not  of  one  sex,  the  fools,"  he  said, 
crossing  one  leg  over.the  other. 

"  First  sex,  then  fools,  and  last,  tragedy ;  is 
that  the  logical  order?  I  should  put  love  for 
sex,"  she  continued,  unraveling  a  fresh  skein, 
"  it 's  more  comprehensive.  Love  gives  the  lie 
to  the  proverb,  does  n't  it  ?  There  is  one  fire 
the  burnt  child  does  not  dread."  And  Gladys 
resumed  her  long  stitches. 

"  Do  you  never  smoke  after  dinner,  Dr.  Schon 
berg?" 

"  To  smoke  I  must  have  my  pipe,  and  my  pipe 
is  in  the  pocket  of  my  dressing  -  gown,"  said 
Schonberg,  feeling  instinctively  in  those  of  his 
dress  coat. 


120  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  But  I  can  give  you  one  of  Jack's  —  a  new 
one."  And  Gladys  laid  aside  her  work.  "  Will 
you  come?"  she  said,  leading  the  way  to  the 
library.  Here  Schonberg  forgot  even  his  pipe. 
"They  belonged  to  my  father,"  said  Gladys. 
"They  are  not  arranged  yet.  Here  are  Fro- 
maget  and  Locke  elbowing  each  other." 

"Do  you  ever  read  them?"  asked  Schon 
berg. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Gladys,  laughing.  "  They 
are  not  altogether  ornamental.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  n't  a  very  high  opinion  of  my  sex." 

"Why  not?"  said  he,  turning  and  looking 
at  her. 

"  Possibly  because  we  like  Fromaget's  imag 
ination  better  than  Locke's  understanding.  But 
we  have  an  understanding.  Once  in  a  while  we 
even  reason  a  little." 

"  Oh,  faster  than  we  do,"  said  he. 

«But"  — 

"  But  not  so  far." 

"  The  hare  and  the  tortoise  !  I  believe  I  shall 
finish  by  becoming  a  disciple  of  Locke,"  she 
said,  running  her  hand  over  the  shelf,  and 
bringing  the  books  into  line.  "All  our  knowl 
edge  comes  from  experience ;  the  trouble  is,  we 
women  never  profit  by  it.  We  leave  the  reins 
to  impulse,  after  you  have  given  them  to  rea 
son.  Would  you  like  to  examine  me  in  Locke  ? 
Come,  begin." 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  121 

Schonberg  was  penetrative,  but  he  had  not 
yet  classified  Gladys.  A  deeper  riddle  might 
have  been  more  easily  solved.  Each  furnished 
the  other  a  new  sensation.  She  could  not  em 
barrass  him,  while  he,  on  the  other  hand,  made 
her  feel  like  a  novice  in  an  art  in  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  consider  herself  proficient.  For 
to  Schonberg  conversation  was  a  real  and  seri 
ous  business,  and  no  art  at  all.  Rugged  and 
direct,  his  simplicity  went  straight  through  the 
guard  of  Gladys'  society  weapon.  He  ignored 
all  the  rules  of  the  game.  She  was  a  good 
fencer,  and  enjoyed  the  science  of  attack  and  de 
fense,  the  flash  and  ring  of  the  steel ;  and  in 
society,  where  the  foils  wear  buttons,  that  is 
everything.  One  does  not  go  into  a  parlor  to 
draw  blood,  unless  with  a  stiletto,  tipped  with 
poison,  in  the  sleeve.  Not  that  Schonberg  was 
sanguinary.  He  was  only  serious,  intent  upon 
the  theme,  and  forgetful  of  the  speaker.  Gladys 
added  to  her  conversation  an  element  of  person 
ality,  sparingly,  as  one  uses  a  strong  condiment, 
but  as  a  necessary  ingredient  without  which  it 
lost  all  its  zest.  Whereas  for  Schonberg  neither 
he  nor  you  counted  for  anything.  He  neither 
wished  to  please  nor  to  wound.  It  was  a  new 
experience  for  Gladys  to  be  taken  at  her  word. 
But  she  was  not  wanting  in  tact,  and  finding  she 
could  not  fence  with  one  who  does  not  know 


122  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

how,  she  sheathed  her  weapon  and  faced  her 
adversary  with  a  pair  of  innocent  blue  eyes.  If 
they  could  not  embarrass,  they  could  mystify  ; 
for  they  changed  like  summer  skies,  and  to  look 
into  them  was  like  looking  upon  a  landscape 
bathed  in  mist,  which  confuses  the  perspective 
and  gives  objects  uncertain  proportions.  Their 
spell  did  not  act  at  a  distance,  the  flame  was 
more  bright  than  warm ;  but  in  their  presence 
they  possessed  a  nameless  influence  which  dis 
armed  reserve,  and  in  which,  as  in  a  cup  of 
wine,  constraint  and  coldness  were  dissolved 
away. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  examine  this 
library,"  Schonberg  said  in  reply,  his  eyes  wan 
dering  over  the  shelves  again. 

"  You  like  books  better  than  people." 

"They  are  easier  to  get  along  with,"  said 
Schonberg,  taking  down  a  volume.  "  A  book 
can  retain  what  it  holds.  No  one  is  obliged  to 
read  a  poor  one  ;  but  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to 
shake  off  a  fool." 

"  How  different-we  are,"  said  Gladys,  sitting 
down  and  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  It 's 
just  the  reverse  with  me,  I  have  n't  the  least 
difficulty  with  the  fools  —  but  there  are  books 
I  cannot  shake  off  at  all." 

"What  ones?"  asked  he,  taking  out  his 
glasses. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  123 

"  Ah,  you  cannot  tell,  oir  Tortoise.  I  know 
yours  without  asking." 

"  If  you  know  my  books,  you  know  me,"  he 
replied,  looking  from  the  open  page  over  his 
spectacles  dubiously. 

"  Of  course,"  laughed  Gladys,  "  and  vice 
versa.  But  the  variety  is  so  great "  —  and  she 
glanced  round  the  room  —  "  that  you  cannot 
find  the  clue  !  Don't  you  think  they  ought  to 
be  arranged  and  catalogued  ?  They  are  all  in 
confusion  now.  One  might  at  least  make  a  pic 
turesque  effect  with  the  bindings.  But  we  are 
forgetting  that  pipe  !  Wait,  I  will  send  it  to 

you." 

As  she  went  out  the  door,  she  turned. 

"  Dr.  Schonberg."  She  had  to  call  twice,  for 
he  was  already  deep  among  the  leaves.  "  Con 
fess  for  once,"  she  said,  "  it  was  not  so  very  dif 
ficult  to  shake  off  the  fool."  And  a  moment 
later,  a  servant  brought  him  a  tray  on  which 
was  a  pipe  and  some  latakia,  and  lit  the  lamp, 
for  it  was  beginning  to  grow  dark. 

Schonberg  did  not  resent  the  personal  appli 
cation  of  his  remark;  first,  because  he  knew 
Gladys  was  not  serious,  and  then  he  was  not 
quite  sure  to  which  of  the  two  she  referred. 

Jack,  who  preferred  his  cigar  with  Mabel  to 
the  exertion  of  conversation,  was  somewhat  sur 
prised  at  Gladys'  reappearance  on  the  terrace 


124  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

alone.  He  had  listened  with  interest  to  her 
efforts  to  entertain  her  guest,  and,  recalling  her 
assumption  of  the  role  of  Providence,  remarked, 
as  she  came  out  the  library  door,  — 

"  You  've  caught  a  Tartar  this  time,  have  n't 
you,  Gladys  ?  " 

"  I  have  introduced  him  to  his  best  friends," 
she  replied  carelessly. 

"  Oh,  you  can  manage  him  if  any  one  can," 
said  he.  He  had  great  confidence  in  her 
methods.  He  never  felt  aggrieved  at  her  usur 
pation  of  attention  or  responsibility  in  this  di 
rection,  for  not  every  one  could  claim  the  one 
with  less  arrogance,  or  exercise  the  other  with 
more  discretion.  She  had  a  talent  for  bringing 
together  those  ripe  for  each  other,  and  of  mak 
ing  her  guests  forget  all  sense  of  duty.  Jack 
had  not  forgotten  an  evening  at  the  minister's, 
where  every  one  had  been  changed  round  at 
definite  intervals  for  the  apparently  sole  pur 
pose  of  being  kept  busy.  "  It  was  like  playing 
dominoes  without  matching,"  Gladys  had  re 
marked  on  the  way  home. 

"  It  is  Miss  Mabel's  bed-time,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  door. 

"  Mabel,  do  you  hear  ?  "  said  Gladys. 

Mabel,  hooking  tulip  heads  over  the  balcony 
with  her  impromptu  line,  abandoned  her  occu* 
pation  reluctantly,  and  after  having  indulged  in 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  125 

such  specious  delays  as  she  deemed  prudent,  as 
a  last  resort  asked  if  she  might  go  and  say  good 
night  to  Schonberg. 

"  Yes,  go." 

Jack  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  towards  the 
steps. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Jack  ?  "  asked  Gla 
dys. 

"  I  promised  Rowan  I  would  call  this  even 
ing."  He  lingered  a  moment  on  the  stairs  as  if 
expecting  she  would  say  something.  But  she 
did  not  speak.  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  turning  away. 

Children  !  she  thought,  as  she  passed  and  re- 
passed  the  library  door.  The  dream  was  differ 
ent  from  the  reality.  There  had  been  no  fear, 
no  humiliation,  in  the  dream  ;  for  a  dream  like 
hers,  indulged  in  between  two  strokes  of  her 
ivory  brush,  dallied  with  between  two  stitches  of 
her  loitering  needle,  could  be  banished  with  a 
frown  or  a  sigh  when  conscience  awoke.  And 
Gladys  had  a  conscience,  although  often  not 
aware  of  it  till,  like  the  magnetic  needle  above 
the  ore,  it  swerved  under  the  attraction  of  self 
interest.  She  was  explaining  the  matter  to  it 
now  as  she  walked  to  and  fro,  and  she  found  it 
easier  to  treat  with  conscience  than  with  pride  ; 
for  conscience  can  be  argued  with  and  diverted, 
but  pride  is  consoled  for  its  humiliations  only  by 


126  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

forgetting  them.  As  if  conscience  could  dictate 
to  the  heart !  its  whips  might  scourge,  but  they 
could  not  kill.  Conscience !  Gladys  loved  au 
thority,  but  despised  law.  If  there  was  a  task 
to  be  performed,  she  would  do  it  of  her  own  free 
will,  not  under  the  goad  of  duty.  A  task !  the 
tide  of  her  indignation  turned  against  herself. 
What  was  she  thinking  of  ?  Love  ?  She,  Gla 
dys  Temple  ?  Though  the  night  was  cool  and 
fresh,  she  grew  hot  as  she  walked  the  terrace 
under  the  summer  stars,  for  the  fight  is  only  a 
vain  beating  of  the  air  when  one  will  not  rec 
ognize  the  enemy,  and  pride  persisted  in  throw 
ing  the  blame  upon  circumstances.  After  all, 
what  had  happened  ?  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing, 
she  repeated  obstinately,  shutting  her  eyes. 

The  sound  of  Mabel's  voice  came  through  the 
open  door. 

Schonberg  had  not  heard  the  patter  of  feet 
running  over  the  terrace,  nor  seen  the  little 
figure  with  its  dress*  full  of  tulips  till  it  stood 
before  him  in  the^red  light  of  the  lamp. 

"  I  'm  going  to  bed,"  said  Mabel,  depositing 
her  tulips  on  his  open  book  and  standing  on  tip 
toe  to  be  kissed. 

"Are  you?"  said  Schonberg.  "Well,  good 
night,  little  girl ; "  and  he  lifted  her  to  his  lips. 

"  Are  you  going  to  sleep  here  ? "  inquired 
liabeL 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  127 

"  No,"  said  he,  smiling,  and  realizing  for  the 
first  time  that  he  had  been  very  much  at  home. 

"  Are  n't  you  afraid  of  witches  ?  "  pursued 
Mab  earnestly. 

"  Witches  ?    What  are  they  ?  " 

"  They  live  in  the  dark,  and  eat  people  up," 
said  Mabel  in  a  confidential  whisper  calculated 
to  inspire  terror. 

"  If  that 's  the  case  I  had  best  be  going,"  said 
Schonberg,  kissing  once  more  the  small  witch 
before  him  and  folding  his  glasses  in  their  case. 
As  he  rose  from  his  chair  he  saw  Gladys,  im 
mobile,  in  the  doorway.  The  light  from  within 
shone  full  on  her  face.  It  was  flushed,  and 
betrayed  anxiety.  It  was  not  the  same  woman 
that  had  left  him  a  half  hour  ago.  He  had  only 
seen  her  twice  before  ;  but  the  one  brief  meet 
ing  of  their  eyes  at  Rowan's  that  morning,  when 
he  turned  from  Seraphine's  picture,  came  back 
to  him  now. 

"  Mabel  has  been  warning  me  of  dangers 
which  beset  my  way  home,"  said  he. 

Gladys  laughed  nervously.     "  Dangers  ?  " 

"  Yes,  witches,"  he  replied,  looking  at  her  in 
tently. 

"  You  should  have  told  her  they  were  all 
burned  long  ago,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  avoided 
his,  and  a  thought,  like  a  flash  from  a  night 
cloud,  so  rapid  that  what  is  seen  is  only  a  ghost 


128  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

of  a  landscape  lingering  in  the  darkness,  shot 
through  his  mind.  They  crossed  the  terrace  si 
lently,  with  that  uneasiness  which  succeeds  the 
sudden  consciousness  of  mutual  comprehension. 
I  am  worse  than  Mabel  with  her  witches,  thought 
he.  Why  not  ?  said  another  voice  ;  the  fireflies 
on  the  lawn  can  attract  your  attention,  and  the 
thoughts  of  a  feverish  brain  close  beside  you 
emit  no  light ! 

He  put  out  his  large  warm  hand  to  say  good 
night. 

•  "  It 's  a  night  for  dreams,"  she  said,  lingering 
at  the  steps. 

"  Dreams !  "  said  he  ;  "  beware  of  them.  Be 
tween  dreaming  and  living  there  is  a  gulf 
fixed." 

Then  she  heard  the  grinding  of  his  cane  on 
the  gravel. 

XXI. 

While  Schonberg  was  reading  that  evening  in 
Gladys'  library,  Seraphine  made  him  a  present 
in  this  wise. 

She  and  Elize  were  sitting  together  on  the 
porch  when  Rowan  came  up  the  walk. 

"  Is  Miss  Fleming  at  home  ?  "  he  asked,  rec 
ognizing  Elize  by  the  light  from  the  window. 

Seraphine  rose  from  the  shadow,  and   Elize 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  129 

presented  him.  It  was  not  wholly  because  Row 
an  had  asked  only  for  her  sister  that  Elize 
walked  down  to  the  gate,  loitering  between  it 
and  The  Towers  with  the  thought  of  Schon- 
berg's  half-promised  visit  in  mind.  Nor  was  it 
altogether  because  of  her  natural  delicacy.  She 
felt  a  strange  timidity.  Nothing  troubled  Elize 
so  much  as  a  mystery,  because  —  well,  the  most 
casual  observer  could  have  told  why.  Those 
scarlet  flushes  which  waxed  and  waned  like  the 
glow  of  the  auroral  light  under  the  pale  olive 
of  her  cheek,  those  clear  gray  eyes  into  which 
the  dark  lashes  were  ever  throwing  shadows, 
told  all  her  secrets. 

"  Miss  Fleming,"  began  Rowan,  "  I  have  come 
to  offer  you  an  apology."  She  was  still  stand 
ing,  and  he  saw  by  her  face,  on  which  the  light 
from  within  fell,  that  she  knew  nothing.  "  Af 
ter  meeting  you  in  the  woods  the  other  day,  I 
went  home  and  painted  you  as  I  first  saw  you. 
My  cousin,  Mrs.  Temple,  has  accidentally  seen 
this  picture ;  I  say  accidentally,  —  I  mean  I  was 
not  present  when  she  discovered  it,  nor  when  it 
was  shown  to  your  sister  and  Dr.  Schonberg, 
who  happened  also  to  be  there.  I  am  not  such 
a  sophist,  Miss  Fleming,  as  to  attribute  the  " 
he  sought  for  a  better  word,  but  could  not  find 
it  —  "  the  unpleasant  position  in  which  you  are 
placed  to  my  cousin's  curiosity.  The  fault  lies 


130  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

behind  that,  and  is  mine.  Nor  am  I  willing  to 
excuse  that  fault  by  saying,  what  is  not  true, 
that  in  painting  that  picture  I  was  doing  only 
what  artists  claim  the  right  to." 

Seraphine  made  a  movement. 

"  The  more  I  have  thought  of  it,  the  more  I 
have  dreaded  to  come  and  say  this,"  pursued 
Rowan,  "and  the  more  clearly  I  felt  I  ought  to 
—  because  "  —  He  hesitated  a  moment,  break 
ing  off  a  cluster  of  the  blue  berries  which  hung 
from  the  woodbine  about  the  porch. 

"  Why  do  you  go  so  deeply  into  the  reasons  ?  " 
said  Seraphine. 

He  looked  up  quickly.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  heard  her  voice.  There  was  in  it  the 
faintest  tremor,  but  when  he  searched  her  eyes 
he  could  not  tell  whether  his  reasons  had  trou 
bled  her  or  were  indifferent  to  her. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  Every  word  I  say 
only  adds  to  my  offense.  But,  thus  far,  Miss 
Fleming,  —  have  I  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  very  frank,"  said  Seraphine. 
"For  that  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ferguson." 

There  was  an  afterthought  in  her  words  which 
he  imagined  he  divined. 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  what  I  should  do  with 
it,"  he  said  ;  "  but  —  if  it  would  save  you  the 
embarrassment  of  deciding  —  I  will  keep  it." 

"  No,"  said  Seraphine,  smiling,  "  you  will  give 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  131 

it  to  my  uncle,  Dr.  Schonberg."  This  solution 
did  not  please  him,  and  he  could  not  avoid  show 
ing  it.  "And  you  will  do  so  because  I  ask 
you,"  added  Seraphine. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then,  looking 
into  her  face  again,  "  An  artist's  work  is  dear 
to  him,  Miss  Fleming." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  command  you,  Mr.  Fer 
guson  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied  eagerly,  "  you  are  right,  and 
I  will  do  what  you  have  —  asked,  may  I  say  — 
not  commanded  ?  " 

There  was  a  troubled  look  in  her  eyes  worth 
more  to  him  than  words.  She  had  taken  her 
seat  again  in  the  shadow.  He  had  nothing  more 
to  say  that  he  dared  to,  yet  he  hesitated. 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Fleming." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  —  and,  as  he 
turned,  "  thank  you." 

At  the  gate  he  met  Elize,  who  gave  him  an 
inquiring  glance  in  the  dusk. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  tried  the  patience  of  a 
saint,"  said  he. 

u  You  ought  to  be  more  considerate  of  saints," 
replied  Elize,  "you  who  paint  them." 

Soon  after  Rowan  had  left,  a  soft  rain  began 
to  fall.  Seraphine  had  gone  to  her  room.  Elize 
lingered  at  the  door,  though  she  no  longer  ex 
pected  Schonberg.  The  leaves  glistened  in  the 


132  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

light  streaming  from  the  windows,  the  rain  gur 
gled  in  the  eaves.  She  felt  a  loneliness  she 
could  not  explain ;  there  was,  in  her  heart,  all 
the  difference  between  her  morning  walk  in  the 
sun  amid  the  songs  of  the  robins  in  the  hazels, 
and  this  slow  rain  falling  out  of  the  mysterious 
night.  She  closed  the  door,  put  out  the  can 
dles,  and  went  up  stairs.  It  was  not  the  rain  on 
the  roof  that  kept  her  awake  that  night. 

"  Seraphine,"  she  whispered. 

«  What  is  it,  Elize  ?  " 

She  hardly  knew  how  to  begin.  That  which 
troubled  her  meant  nothing  or  everything.  It 
was  the  first  time  they  two  had  ever  gone  to 
sleep  together  without  that  hour's  talk  which 
begins  when  the  candles  are  lighted  on  the 
dressing-table  ;  when  the  heart  shares  the  aban 
don  of  the  body  and  opens  its  doors,  as  those 
flowers  which  open  only  at  night  and  yield  their 
perfume  only  in  the  light  of  the  stars.  But  it 
was  no  longer  the  picture  standing  in  Rowan's 
room  which  troubled  her — it  was  Seraphine  her 
self.  Why?  She  did  not  know,  except  that 
she  lay  so  quietly  beside  her.  If  she  had  moved 
—  certainly  she  was  not  yet  asleep  —  and  ElLze 
began  to  wonder.  The  rain  continued  softly 
but  persistently ;  the  great  drops  swelled  and  fell 
from  overhanging  boughs  on  the  roof ;  the  wind 
sighed  in  the  chimney.  Her  thoughts  came  as 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  133 

the  rain  and  the  wind  came,  in  gusts,  a  broken 
chain  of  images,  now  distinct,  now  dissolved  in 
unconsciousness ;  she  began  to  dream.  She 
was  searching  —  searching  for  that  little  rivulet 
she  heard,  but  which  hid  in  the  tall  grass  and 
daisies.  She  listened ;  yes,  it  was  there,  trick 
ling  on  —  somewhere,  close  under  her  feet  — 
but  she  could  not  find  it ;  then  the  murmur  be 
came  a  roar.  Hark !  it  was  like  the  sea.  She 
woke  with  a  start.  The  wind  was  sighing  at 
the  windows,  and  the  raindrops  trickling  on  the 
roof.  She  had  been  dreaming.  She  put  out 
her  hand  and  felt  for  Seraphine's ;  it  did  not 
move.  She  crept  closer,  till  her  cheek  touched 
her  shoulder ;  she  was  asleep.  How  warm  the 
shelter  of  that  room  was  —  how  sweet  the  touch 
of  that  form !  How  foolish  she  had  been ! 
Seraphine  had  no  secrets  from  her.  And  once 
more,  in  the  murmur  of  the  rain  and  the  night 
wind,  she  fell  asleep. 

But  not  Seraphine  —  wide  awake,  with  Elize's 
hand  in  hers.  There  are  seeds  which,  from  the 
time  they  first  fall  into  the  heart,  we  know  will 
come  to  maturity. 

A  ray  of  yellow  light  from  thirty  million 
leagues  away  crosses  the  horizon  line.  The 
leaden  sea  sparkles,  the  sterile  rock  grows  warm, 
the  shut  flowers  open.  The  first  arrow  from  the 


134  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

quiver  of  the  sun !  cries  the  Poet.  The  scientist 
laughs.  Your  metaphor,  he  says,  is  at  fault ; 
the  emissive  theory  was  long  ago  disproved ;  it 
is  a  vibration.  Bah!  says  the  Philosopher,  a 
vibration  in  a  vacuum  !  No,  that  is  impossible. 
In  a  rare  material  medium,  then  ?  No,  friction 
is  inadmissible.  In  what,  then  ?  Ether.  And 
ether,  what  is  that?  An  imponderable  fluid. 
And  this  imponderable  fluid,  since  it  is  not  mat 
ter,  what  is  it  ?  The  Scientist  hesitates,  and  the 
Poet  laughs.  My  friend,  says  the  Philosopher, 
I  have  a  brain,  whence  spring  ideas,  complex, 
mysteriously  combined  —  but  how  ?  Conscious 
ness  notes  only  the  result,  the  process  is  un 
known. 

And  I,  cried  the  Poet,  have  a  heart,  whence 
springs  love  —  love,  frailer  than  beauty,  stronger 
than  sin.  How  ?  I  will  explain  it  all  to  you, 
when  you  have  told  me  how  the  shaft  from  the 
sun's  quiver  fell  this  morning  into  the  sea  ! 


xxn. 

Gladys  was  supposed  to  have  been  kindly 
treated  by  fortune.  It  had  surrounded  her  with 
an  atmosphere  which  resolved  such  of  the  crude 
realities  of  life  as  succeeded  in  penetrating  it 
into  a  soft  illusion  of  spectrum-like  colors.  It 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  135 

had  favored  her,  too,  with  a  happy,  contented 
disposition.  She  accepted  life  as  she  found  it. 
It  was  not  altogether  satisfactory :  her  love  for 
laces,  for  example,  could  never  be  satisfied ;  then, 
too,  a  complexion  was  a  great  care  and  source 
of  anxiety ;  —  there  was  also  her  Aunt  Isabel. 
Still,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a  very  agreeable  gift ; 
and  while  aware  that  there  were  probably  greater 
evils  than  even  Aunt  Isabel  in  store  for  her,  she 
enjoyed  her  immunity  from  them  as  she  never 
could  have  done  had  she  realized  how  complete 
it  was.  Poverty  ?  There  was  undoubtedly  such 
a  thing.  She  had  even  imagined  what  she  would 
do  under  a  reverse  of  fortune.  She  would  wear 
a  very  neat,  close-fitting  calico  dress,  with  a  nar 
row  white  collar,  and  take  in  sewing.  Further 
than  this  she  ceased  to  plan  for  what  was,  after 
all,  a  remote  contingency.  Suffering  ?  Gladys 
had  not  thought  herself  especially  exempted. 
She  had  a  great  many  worries  ;  she  had  to  grow 
old  like  other  people,  and  die  like  them.  Pas 
sions  ?  She  did  not  believe  very  much  in  the 
passions,  which  were  not  associated  in  her  mind 
with  well-bred  people.  Besides,  they  hastened 
the  flight  of  every  pleasure,  sapped  every  throne, 
and  furrowed  the  face  with  wrinkles ;  of  which 
Gladys  thought  more  than  of  the  fiery  track 
they  plough  in  the  heart.  She  had  read  a  great 
deal,  and  very  judiciously.  Novels,  to  be  sure, 


136  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

abounded  in  passion,  and  novels  were  very  enter 
taining  ;  she  liked  nothing  better  than  a  good 
one,  in  a  pleasant  room  before  a  cosy  fire.  But 
novels  were  fiction.  No  one  had  ever  thrown 
himself  at  her  feet  with  the  threat  of  suicide  in 
reserve,  no  one  had  ever  languished  and  died 
because  of  her  caprices ;  and  she  was  heartily 
glad  of  it.  If  Gladys  estimated  the  passions 
lightly,  it  must  be  remembered  all  our  judgments 
are  fettered  by  first  impressions,  and  that  hers 
had  been  derived  from  society,  under  whose 
forces  the  heart  receives  a  surface  polish  whose 
sparkle  prevents  one  from  seeing  far  within  it. 
She  loved  Jack  —  certainly  she  did ;  Jack  was 
very  thoughtful  and  indulgent.  Once,  when  in 
Homburg  with  her  aunt,  an  old  nobleman  had 
sued  for  her  hand,  and  Aunt  Isabel  had  advised 
her  to  accept  him.  But  Gladys,  who  was  very 
young  then,  had  promptly  refused  ;  at  which  her 
aunt  told  her  she  was  a  little  fool.  Not  a  few 
younger  lovers  had  subsequently  sued  for  her 
heart,  but  with  so  little  success  that  her  aunt 
finally  remarked,  with  even  more  warmth  than 
before,  that  she  had  not  a  particle  of  blood  in 
her  veins,  and  was  as  destitute  of  feeling  as  a 
fish.  Still  later,  she  had  met  her  cousin  Rowan. 
He  was  very  different  from  the  thoroughly  crys 
tallized  people  she  had  known  in  society,  for 
society,  when  it  forms  a  character,  hardens  it; 


TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  137 

and  yet,  to  her  surprise,  he  proved  less  tractable 
than  they.  First  amused,  then  attracted,  she 
was  finally  piqued.  Exactly  what  passed  be 
tween  them  was  not  known  even  to  Aunt  Isa 
bel,  who  was  dumbfounded  when  her  niece 
announced  her  intention  to  marry  Jack.  This 
done,  perhaps  Gladys  imagined  life  was  ex 
hausted,  and  that  she  could  predict  every  day 
that  was  left.  Certainly  it  was  with  no  little 
surprise,  as  well  as  uneasiness,  that  she  felt  the 
flame  beneath  the  sparkle.  So  there  were  giants 
nowadays  after  all,  and  the  passions  she  had 
seen  as  so  many  twinkling  stars,  like  those  which 
glittered  above  her  as  she  listened  to  Schon- 
berg's  retreating  footsteps,  were  titanic  forces 
lodged  in  her  own  heart. 

She  walked  down  the  lawn  through  the  trees 
which  masked  the  road,  absorbed  in  her  thoughts, 
but  with  that  same  need  of  movement,  of  occu 
pation,  which  had  possessed  her  all  the  day.  A 
torturing  sense  of  duality  tormented  her,  as  if 
two  implacable  enemies,  imprisoned  within,  were 
struggling  for  her  ear.  Rowan  had  been  rude 
and  she  had  been  indignant,  that  was  all.  Per 
haps  jealousy  outlives  love  ;  but  did  he  imagine 
for  a  moment  —  And  her  pride  swooped  like  a 
falcon  on  its  prey.  How  absurd,  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  woman  he  had  never  spoken  to !  And 
what  right  had  he  to  come  back  now ;  she  was 


138  TEE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

happy  .  .  .  perfectly  happy.  Once  .  .  .  Oh,  if 
once  ...  and  her  thought  soared  as  the  lark  soars 
above  the  morning  fog,  beating  the  mist  of  the 
meadow  under  its  wing.  Her  life  seemed  sud 
denly  to  have  been  so  paltry  .  .  .  without  even 
illusions  .  .  .  happiness  missed,  missed,  not  lost ! 
.  .  .  and  she,  fooled  to  sleep  with  trifles  when 
there  were  forces  stalking  like  giants  through 
the  land  and  she  was  of  their  race.  To  live  .  .  . 
to  love  .  .  .  the  thought  filled  her  with  a  joyous 
sense  of  power,  —  power  to  suffer  and  endure  ; 
she  was  glad,  glad  to  the  verge  of  fear.  A  new 
exhilaration  quickened  her  step,  the  very  earth 
throbbed  warm  under  her  foot,  and  the  trees  .  .  . 
hark !  were  they  whispering  together  of  her  ? 
She  hurried  out  of  their  shadows  into  the  open 
space  by  the  gate.  Love !  she  said  to  herself 
disdainfully,  while  a  bitter  sentiment  of  reproach 
drove  out  the  momentary  joy ;  he  cared  nothing 
for  her  —  he  might  even  come  to  hate  her ;  and 
her  eyes  flashed  in  the  light  flickering  from  the 
gas  jet  above  the  gate. 

She  would  go  and  meet  Jack ;  her  heart 
warmed  suddenly  towards  Jack. 

The  clouds  had  shut  out  the  stars,  and  a  drop 
of  rain  fell  on  her  cheek.  She  stopped  at  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  and  listened.  What  could 
keep  Jack  so  long  ?  They  could  find  nothing  to 
talk  about ;  he  knew  nothing  about  painting, 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  139 

and  Rowan  cared  nothing  for  stocks.  A  fresh 
breeze  stirred  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  dropped 
from  branch  to  branch.  She  would  wait  no  lon 
ger  ;  it  might  be  hours  before  Jack  came  back. 
She  would  go  home,  to  bed,  to  sleep  .  .  .  but  not 
to  dream. 

She  hurried  back,  seeking  the  shelter  of  the 
trees  to  escape  the  random  drops,  though  the 
darkness  terrified  her.  But  once  in  her  room, 
she  found  this  darkness  pleasant,  and  sat  for  a 
long  time  by  the  window  watching  the  clouds 
sliding  over  the  stars,  till  nothing  was  visible 
but  the  distant  glare  of  the  lights  of  Ashurst, 
reflected  in  a  gray  mist  of  rain. 

She  would  light  the  candles  and  finish  her 
book. 

It  was  one  in  which  she  had  been  exceedingly 
interested,  but  it  appeared  to  her  now  very  com 
monplace.  Its  characters  were  so  many  puppets, 
making  set  speeches  and  walking  about  like 
Nuremberg  toys.  Why  did  they  not  do  some 
thing  !  What  did  all  these  grooves  and  wheels 
amount  to  !  A  drop  of  freezing  water,  a  little 
vapor  caught  in  a  rock,  were  mightier  than  they. 
The  book  was  stupid  —  she  would  go  to  bed. 

But  in  sleep  all  the  sentinels  of  reason  nodded 
at  their  posts,  and  imagination,  the  reveler,  put 
on  his  cap  and  bells.  He  swept  away  the  silken 
hangings  of  Gladys'  bed,  and  hung  a  great  world 


140  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

there  —  a  cold,  dead  world,  solitary  and  still,  in 
an  empty  space.  The  gilt  night-clock  was  tick 
ing  on  the  dressing  table  ;  she  could  hear  the 
beat  of  the  dead  world's  heart  —  louder,  louder, 
till  its  mountains  trembled  and  fire  shone  in  the 
seams  of  its  barren  rocks.  "  My  dear,"  said  this 
world,  suddenly,  in  an  ironical  voice  which  so 
resembled  her  aunt's  that  Gladys  sat  up  in  her 
bed,  "  though  you  are  cold  as  a  fish,  your  pas 
sions  will  some  day  ruin  you." 

When  Gladys  woke  again  the  sun  was  stream 
ing  in  the  window.  How  pleasant  those  first 
waking  moments  were,  when  the  thoughts  that 
had  troubled  her  sleep  were  dissolving  in  this 
strong  bright  sun,  and  she  realized  they  were 
only  vanishing  fancies  and  dreams.  Life  glit 
tered  again  like  the  river  she  saw  from  her  win 
dow  as  she  threw  wide  open  the  blinds.  Her 
senses  drank  in  the  sparkle  of  the  water,  the 
songs  of  the  birds,  the  fragrance  of  the  earth  re 
freshed  by  the  night  rain.  This  was  the  reality. 

She  was  so  contented  and  happy  that  she  felt 
the  need  of  speaking  to  some  one,  and  smiled  at 
her  own  blue  eyes  in  the  glass.  Even  Aunt 
Isabel  seemed  attractive,  and  Gladys  knocked  at 
her  door  as  she  finished  the  last  button  of  her 
morning  dress  on  the  way  down  to  breakfast. 
Her  aunt  was  already  in  her  chair ;  Gladys  did 
not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  her  in  bed.  She 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  141 

proposed  they  should  take  a  ride,  —  "  it  was  so 
beautiful  after  the  rain.  I  will  order  the  horses 
at  once,  and  we  will  start  immediately  after 
breakfast." 

"  Here  is  your  letter,  Gladys,"  said  her  aunt, 
taking  a  paper  from  the  table  as  she  was  leav 
ing. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  she  replied,  throw 
ing  it  into  the  basket. 

Aunt  Isabel  appeared  as  the  carriage  rounded 
the  terrace  corner ;  punctuality  was  one  of  her 
virtues.  There  were  traces  of  beauty  on  her 
face,  to  say  nothing  of  that  beauty  which  is  nei 
ther  created  nor  destroyed  by  the  imagination, 
—  character ;  traces  too  of  the  coquette,  though 
the  pleasure  of  adding  that  touch  of  art  which 
no  wealth  of  resources  need  despise  had  long 
since  lapsed  into  the  duty  of  making  the  best  of 
such  as  were  left.  Gladys  was  somewhat  afraid 
of  her.  Her  wit  had  grown  caustic  with  age, 
and  bit  hard.  But  Gladys  was  not  always 
worsted.  She  remembered  the  encounter  of 
Richard's  sword  with  Saladin's  cushion,  and  op 
posed  an  unresisting  good  nature,  an  innocent 
laugh,  to  the  wiry  edge  of  her  aunt's  attack. 
She  had  learned,  too,  that  when  she  had  a  really 
good  opportunity  to  retort,  she  won  respect  by 
availing  herself  of  it.  Nothing  so  pleased  Aunt 
Isabel,  strange  to  say,  as  to  be  fairly  beaten  by 


142  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

Gladys ;  it  was  the  son  outdoing  the  father. 
Once,  when  Gladys  told  her  that  having  failed 
to  set  a  good  example  in  her  youth  she  consoled 
herself  by  framing  admirable  maxims  in  her  old 
age,  Aunt  Isabel  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  genuine 
laughter. 

She  was  at  heart  very  fond  of  Gladys,  above 
all,  because  she  had  never  to  forgive  her  for 
being  stupid ;  and  this  morning,  Gladys  being 
especially  in  vein,  the  old  lady  lay  back  against 
her  cushion  with  half-closed  eyes,  listening  to 
her  account  of  Ashurst  and  its  people.  Gladys 
possessed  the  art  of  graphic  narration  and  de 
scription,  and  could  draw  one  of  those  pictures 
which  leave  a  perfectly  definite  image  on  the 
mind  although  we  cannot  remember  its  details. 
She  had  found  at  the  breakfast  table  a  note  from 
Jack  to  the  effect  that  he  and  Rowan  were  off 
for  a  day's  shooting.  Without  any  well-defined 
purpose  she  turned  the  horses'  heads  away  from 
the  village  into  the  woodland  roads.  On  the 
whole  she  was  rather  glad  to  be  relieved  from 
her  sitting  that  day. 

Passing  through  a  strip  of  woods  which  fol 
lowed  a  brook  down  from  the  hills,  they  over 
took  Seraphine.  She  was  sitting  on  one  of  the 
side  logs  which  guarded  the  bridge,  resting. 
Gladys'  recognition  was  accompanied  by  one  of 
her  brightest  smiles,  but  the  one  she  received  in 
return  seemed  to  her  even  brighter. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  143 

"Gladys,  who  was  that  young  girl  on  the 
bridge  ?  "  asked  her  aunt  some  time  after. 

"  Miss  Fleming." 

"  You  have  not  told  me  about  her." 

Gladys  told  what  she  knew,  adding :  "  You 
must  ask  Rowan  if  you  wish  to  know  more." 

"  Ho,  ho !  "  said  Aunt  Isabel  to  herself  with 
a  sharp  glance  at  Gladys. 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  pretty  ?  "  the  latter 
asked  carelessly. 

"Decidedly;  there  is  no  question  about  it. 
She  reminds  me  very  much  of  the  Countess 
Foy." 

Gladys  smiled.  Her  aunt  never  forgot  a 
name  or  a  face,  and  these  reminiscences  of  days 
before  Gladys  was  born,  to  which  she  was  not 
infrequently  obliged  to  listen,  were  not  very  in 
teresting  to  her.  "I  suppose  she  was  a  very 
remarkable  woman,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
malice. 

"  Very,"  replied  her  aunt.  "  She  had  an  im 
petuous  heart  which  she  knew  how  to  govern." 

Gladys  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  took  up 
the  whip.  She  was  a  little  irritated  ;  a  small 
black  speck  had  appeared  on  her  day's  horizon. 
"  I  think  Miss  Fleming  is  striking ;  I  don't 
know  that  I  should  call  her  very  beautiful." 

"  Beauty,  my  dear,  has  no  degree.  It  differs 
in  kind,"  said  Aunt  Isabel. 


144  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  don't  admire  that  kind,  then,"  remarked 
Gladys. 

"  You  would  not  have  us  all  alike,  child ! 
There  would  be  no  love  if  there  were  no  vari- 
ety." 

"  No,  nor  any  inconstancy,"  retorted  Gladys. 

"  Inconstancy !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Isabel ;  "  you 
don't  even  know  what  it  is." 

Gladys  lifted  her  brows  in  a  way  peculiar  to 
her,  and  replaced  the  whip  in  the  socket. 

"  This  Dr.  Schonberg,"  said  her  aunt  on  the 
homeward  way,  "interests  me.  He  must  be 
quite  an  original.  Invite  him  to  lunch  with  us, 
since  we  are  to  be  alone.  There  is  yet  time," 
she  said,  looking  at  her  watch. 

"  But  he  dined  with  me  last  night.  I  cannot 
invite  him  again  "  — 

"  Present  him  my  compliments,  Gladys." 

"  Why  not  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No  one  knows  what  may  happen  to-morrow. 
Drive  home  quickly,  I  will  send  him  a  note  my 
self." 

"I  do  not  think  he  would  come  if  he  knew  it 
was  simply  to  amuse  you,"  objected  Gladys. 

"  In  the  first  place,  my  dear,  he  will  not  know 
it,  and  in  the  second  place  we  will  amuse  each 
other." 

So  the  note  was  written  and  despatched.  It 
piqued  somewhat  Gladys'  curiosity,  and  con- 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  145 

tained  a  sentence  which  excited  that  of  Schon- 
berg,  who  appeared  at  one  o'clock  on  the  terrace 
where  Aunt  Isabel,  engaged  in  her  favorite  pas 
time,  a  game  of  solitaire,  awaited  him. 

"  This  is  Dr.  Schonberg  ?  "  she  said,  laying 
down  her  cards.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  take 
this  chair  beside  me,  and  to  excuse  an  old  lady 
who  has  left  but  one  of  her  sex's  privileges,  to 
ask  favors." 

He  bowed  and  took  the  seat  offered  him. 

"  Do  you  play  at  solitaire,  Dr.  Schonberg  ?  " 

"To  tell  the  truth,  madame,  I  have  played 
nothing  else  all  my  life." 

She  smiled  a  little,  fixing  her  bright  penetrat 
ing  eyes  upon  his  face,  and  went  straight  to  her 
point. 

"While  driving,  this  morning,  I  met  Miss 
Fleming." 

Schonberg  deposited  his  hat  on  the  floor  be 
side  his  chair,  and  listened  attentively. 

*'  One  is  astonished  to  see  any  young  people 
at  all  nowadays,  in  our  country  villages ;  they 
hurry  away  from  them  as  the  brooks  do  from 
their  hills.  It  surprises  me  she  is  altogether 
content  to  remain  here,  —  for  she  is  content,  is 
she  not  ?  " 

At  a  loss  what  to  think  of  this  question, 
Schonberg  betrayed  a  movement  of  surprise. 

"  Ashurst,  to  be  sure,  is  a  delightful  spot  for 


146  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

children,  including  those  of  our  age,"  continued 
Aunt  Isabel,  taking  up  her  cards  again,  '"  but  it 
is  only  a  pond,  there  is  no  current." 

"  There  are  eddies  innumerable,"  interjected 
Schonberg. 

"  Therefore  you  and  I  sink  to  the  bottom," 
said  Aunt  Isabel,  searching  for  the  knave  of 
hearts  ;  "  but  do  you  think  Miss  Fleming  will 
imitate  our  example  ?  " 

Schonberg  followed  the  movement  of  the 
cards  in  silence,  till  having  completed  her  game 
the  old  lady  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  fixed 
her  bright  eyes  upon  him  again. 

"  Miss  Fleming  recalled  to  my  mind,  this 
morning,  a  very  dear  friend,  the  Countess  Foy. 
She  has  been  dead,  it  is  true,  these  many  years, 
still  I  remember  her.  And  I  also  remember  a 
beautiful  child  who  caused  her  much  concern. 
Was  not  her  name  Madelon  ?  I  thought  so.  I 
often  heard  of  her  from  her  mother,  with  whom 
I  corresponded  till  her  death,  and  know  very 
well  the  story  of  her  marriage.  To-day,  when  I 
heard  the  name  of  Fleming,  I  said  to  myself, 
this  is  my  friend's  granddaughter." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Schonberg. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  take  some 
interest  in  her.  I  wish  to  see  her." 

"  Certainly." 

"I  am  so  old  I  am  only  an  inhabitant,  but 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  147 

Miss  Fleming  can  be  a  neighbor,  if  it  be  not 
too  late." 

"  Too  late  ?  "  said  Schonberg,  not  understand 
ing  her. 

"  I  mean  before  she  leaves  us." 

"  But  we  have  no  intention  of  leaving." 

"  Oh,  that  is  incredible." 

"  Your  friend  did  not  tell  you  "  —  he  began. 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  told  me  everything. 
He  was  a  precious  fool,  the  grandfather,  I  as 
sure  you." 

"  If  he  is  a  fool,"  said  Schonberg,  not  no 
ticing  her  use  of  the  past  tense,  "  so  much  the 
worse  for  us.  Fools  never  repent." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  him,  then,"  said  Aunt 
Isabel  tranquilly,  "  for  he  is  now  dead." 

"  Dead?"  exclaimed  Schonberg,  rising  to  his 
feet. 

"  Well !  "  cried  the  old  lady,  like  Frederick 
to  his  soldiers,  "what  did  he  wish — to  live  for 
ever?" 

Here  Gladys  appeared.     Lunch  was  ready. 

At  lunch  Gladys  did  not  exert  herself  as  us 
ual.  Schonberg  was  preoccupied,  and  her  aunt 
had  a  satisfied  air  which  above  all  things  always 
exasperated  Gladys.  She  was  conscious  of  in 
truding  upon  them,  and  it  occurred  to  her  at  the 
same  time  that  Jack  had  made  his  plans  for  the 
day  very  abruptly,  and  that  Rowan  had  disposed 


148  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

of  her  sitting  rather  summarily.  She  was  vexed 
with  herself  for  feeling  aggrieved  at  such  trifles, 
but  the  black  spot  on  the  morning's  horizon  had 
grown  larger ;  she  saw  continually  Seraphine, 
smiling.  To  her  thinking  lunch  dragged  along 
so  mournfully  that  she  excused  herself  before  it 
was  over.  It  was  not  of  her  planning,  and  she 
washed  her  hands  of  all  responsibility  for  its 
stupidity. 

"You  must  have  expected  this,"  said  Aunt 
Isabel  when  they  were  alone,  resuming  the  con 
versation  where  it  had  been  interrupted. 

"But  not  in  this  way.  It  must  have  been 
very  sudden." 

"  Very,"  she  replied.  "  My  letter  was  one  of 
gossip,  which  travels  faster  than  business.  More 
over,  it  was  from  Vienna,  where  the  Count  died. 
They  are  searching  for  the  heiress,  and  I  wish 
to  see  her ;  you  will  be  carrying  her  off  now. 
Promise  to  bring  her  to  me.  Poor  child !  how 
long  she  has  waited." 

"  She  has  not  been  waiting,"  said  Schonberg. 

Aunt  Isabel  looked  up  over  her  sherry.  "  You 
do  not  mean  that  she  does  not  know." 

"She  knows  everything." 

"  And  she  has  never  talked  to  you  about  it  ?  " 

"  What  was  there  to  talk  of  ?  "  asked  Schon 
berg. 

"  Humph !  "  muttered   the  old   lady,  moving 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  149 

her  arm-chair  into  the  sun  and  her  glass  to  the 
corner  of  the  table  beside  her. 

Sclionberg,  too,  was  thinking.  So  it  had 
come  at  last ;  the  happy  monotonous  years  were 
over.  He  lived  them  again  as  he  sat  watching 
the  sunshine  quivering  on  the  surface  of  the 
wine.  He  would  give  all  he  possessed  for  the 
happiness  of  those  he  loved.  All  he  possessed! 
That  love  was  his  all  —  yes,  even  that. 

What  did  he  expect?  The  brook  from  the 
hills  lingers  a  moment  in  the  pool  at  their  base, 
and  hurries  on.  Had  he  thought  to  limit  lives 
just  begun  by  his  own  that  was  finished  ?  He 
had  foreseen  all  this  from  the  first.  He  thought 
of  his  morning  visit  at  Rowan's.  The  scenes 
were  shifting,  new  actors  were  coming  on  the 
stage.  But  we  are  never  ready  for  these  transi 
tions,  and  when  they  come  they  are  always  the 
sudden  storm  prepared  mysteriously  out  of  a 
blue  sky.  He  tore  himself  with  a  wrench  from 
his  thoughts,  and  looked  across  the  table  where 
the  old  lady  sat  in  the  sun.  She  was  asleep, 
her  hand  on  the  table,  holding  her  glass.  He 
made  a  movement,  but  she  did  not  stir.  He 
rose  and  walked  to  the  window  opening  on  the 
terrace  ;  Aunt  Isabel's  afternoon  nap  was  not  so 
easily  disturbed.  He  took  his  hat  from  the 
chair  outside  —  no  one  was  in  sight  —  and  walked 
down  the  steps. 


150  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

Gladys,  passing  by  the  window  shortly  after, 
looked  in  and  saw  her  aunt,  still  asleep.  The 
rustle  of  her  dress  as  she  entered,  however, 
awoke  her. 

"  You  must  have  amused  each  other  famously," 
said  Gladys. 

xxni. 

Meanwhile  Seraphine  continued  her  walk. 

She  had  turned  aside  from  the  road  to  follow 
the  brook  up  the  hills.  Wherever  she  paused 
the  miniature  valley  opened  an  enticing  vista 
full  of  lights  and  sounds.  The  little  falls  of 
water  beyond  called  to  her,  "  Come  up  hither 
where  we  are."  There  were  nooks  of  shade 
where  flowers  whose  time  was  past  were  bloom 
ing  still,  —  haunts  of  the  moss  and  fern ;  and 
spots  of  sunshine  where  danced  myriad  flecks  of 
insect  wings.  She  fixed  upon  more  than  one 
distant  landmark  as  her  goal :  a  black  log  under 
which  the  water  rumbled ;  a  great  tree  at  whose 
roots  it  toiled  ;  a  ledge  over  which  it  spread  and 
gathered,  to  leap  through  a  spray-band  of  color 
into  a  pool.  And  still  the  waters  above  called, 
"  Come  up  hither,  follow  my  voice  and  you  can 
not  lose  the  way." 

She  loved  the  woods  and  everything  in  them. 
The  spider  was  safe  there  to  float  his  silken 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  151 

threads  from  the  tips  of  the  ferns  ;  the  red  squir 
rel  waited  till  her  foot  was  on  his  fallen  trunk, 
and  the  wild  pigeon  called  its  mate  from  the 
tree  against  whose  rough  bark  she  leaned.  She 
had  resolved  not  to  go  beyond  this  tree ;  still  she 
lingered,  loath  to  turn  back. 

Suddenly  her  ear  caught  a  sound  of  breaking 
branches  and  crushed  leaves.  Something  was 
moving,  through  the  undergrowth  above  the  open 
space  where  she  stood.  Her  heart  beat  fast, 
though  she  knew  there  was  nothing  in  the  woods 
of  Ashurst  to  frighten  a  child.  She  could  fol 
low  the  sounds  through  the  thicket  of  leaves  as 
they  grew  more  distinct ;  she  could  see  now  the 
tops  of  the  young  trees  swaying  as  they  were 
pushed  aside.  Just  then,  with  a  whirr  that  made 
her  heart  leap  to  her  throat,  a  startled  partridge 
took  wing  from  the  hemlock  cover,  and  lit  with 
a  crash  in  the  tree  above  her  head.  Almost  at 
the  same  instant  a  man  broke  through  the  thicket 
and  paused  on  its  edge,  listening.  It  was  Rowan. 

The  squirrel  leaped  to  a  higher  limb,  the  call 
of  the  pigeon  ceased ;  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
gurgle  of  the  brook. 

He  advanced  slowly,  his  gun  in  his  hand, 
choosing  every  stepping-place  among  the  dry 
leaves  and  dead  branches,  and  scanning  every 
tree.  She  was  in  full  sight,  yet  he  did  not  see 
her.  Cautiously  creeping  from  moss  to  stone, 


152  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

alert,  breathless,  he  drew  near.  Once  he  stopped 
to  shield  his  eyes  from  the  sun  and  search  a 
great  hemlock  between  them.  She  turned  her 
head  slowly,  little  by  little,  upward  where  the 
bird  was  watching  the  hunter  with  its  restless, 
anxious  eye.  He  was  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
them  now ;  he  stopped  again  and  raised  his  gun. 

"  Mr.  Ferguson,"  said  Scraphine,  "  the  bird 
has  taken  shelter  in  my  tree." 

"  Miss  Fleming !  " 

She  stood  just  across  the  brook  against  the 
brown  trunk  of  the  pine  from  which  the  bird, 
startled  afresh,  took  wing,  masking  its  flight  be 
hind  the  thick  branches. 

"  Confess  that  I  frightened  you,"  she  said, 
smiling,  but  trembling. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  in  the  still  wood  had 
indeed  startled  him,  yet  it  seemed  natural  to 
him  that  she  should  be  there.  He  had  been 
thinking  of  her  all  the  day. 

"  Do  you  wonder  ?  "  he  said,  coming  to  the 
edge  of  the  stream.  "  I  thought  you  were  miles 
away." 

The  color  overspread  her  face.  "  I  ought  to 
be,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  late,  and  Elize  will 
not  know  what  to  think.  This  little  brook  en 
ticed  me." 

He  did  not  ask  if  he  might  go  back  with  her ; 
he  even  forgot  Jack,  and  they  walked  along  the 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  153 

banks  together,  the  talking  water  between.  A 
strange  happiness  was  taking  possession  of  her 
heart.  It  came  in  like  a  flood  tide,  till  it  filled 
and  overflowed.  She  struggled  against  it,  as 
against  rising  tears.  A  high  rock  barred  the 
way  below ;  she  was  obliged  to  cross  the  brook, 
and  her  bunch  of  wood  flowers  fell  from  her 
hand.  "  Never  mind,"  she  said.  But  he  res 
cued  them  all  from  the  rapids,  between  the  glis 
tening  stones,  and  the  eddies  above  the  sands  at 
the  bottom  shining  with  a  thousand  fiery  eyes. 
As  he  gave  them  back  to  her  their  hands  touched. 
Surely  the  way  to  the  heart  does  not  lie  through 
the  senses,  and  what  matters  it  if  the  way  to 
the  senses  lies  through  the  heart  ? 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  bridge,  and  they 
talked  —  of  nothing  —  nothing  —  that  nothing 
beside  which  all  else  is  a  shadow,  an  echo,  and  a 
dream. 

XXIV. 

On  his  return  from  The  Towers,  Schonberg, 
prompt  in  action,  though  without  method,  sat 
down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  the  notary  at  Dinant, 
with  whom,  from  time  to  time,  he  had  corre 
sponded  in  relation  to  the  affairs  of  Madelon  and 
her  children.  His  mind  worked  fast,  and  his 
thought  traveled  far ;  details  escaped  him  easily. 


154  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

One  central  fact  filled  the  whole  range  of  his  vis 
ion,  a  new  life  opened  before  him  ;  "  for  the  for 
mer  things  are  passed  away."  A  long  file  of 
memories  came  back  to  him.  Elize  would  not 
run  again  to  his  arms  with  the  news  of  the  rob 
in's  eggs  hatched  over  night,  nor  Seraphine  sit 
on  his  knee  listening  to  his  stories.  "  The  lights 
He  created  for  seasons,  and  for  days,  and  years ; " 
but  when  we  look  up,  the  season  is  past,  the  days 
finished,  and  the  years  set  below  an  ever-advan 
cing  horizon. 

His  letter  finished,  he  carried  it  himself  to  the 
office,  and,  taking  the  road  to  the  bridge,  came 
back  through  the  fields  by  the  river.  On  reach 
ing  the  tea-house  he  took  his  pipe  from  his 
pocket,  filling  it  mechanically,  his  eyes  on  the 
distant  shore.  A  dumb  hostility  against  events, 
—  all  this  chaos  of  experience  we  call  growth, 
progress,  discipline,  —  against  the  old  Count, 
who  in  passing  away,  and  Rowan,  who  in  coming 
upon  the  scene,  opened  for  those  he  loved  this 
new  life,  independent  of  him,  and  into  which  he 
could  not  enter.  "  It  is  in  the  nature  of  things," 
he  muttered,  half  aloud,  pressing  the  tobacco 
into  the  bowl ;  "  they  are  not  the  cause,  only  the 
signal ;  "  and  looking  about  for  some  stray  con 
solation,  he  remembered  that  he  was  approach 
ing  dangerously  near  to  that  period  of  life  when 
we  must  become  a  burden  upon  those  dear  to  us, 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  155 

and  that  separation  would  spare  him  this,  which 
of  all  things  he  detested.  For  separation  it  must 
be  ;  if  not  now,  then  soon.  True,  it  was  not  in 
this  acre  of  Ashurst  that  his  roots  were  so  deep  ; 
but  habit  and  the  necessities  of  his  own  being 
had  gotten  the  upper  hand.  He  looked  about 
him  helplessly,  as  the  plover  in  the  morning  fog 
seeks  for  its  nest.  He  saw  Seraphine  and  Elize 
already  at  Walzins.  "  I  must  tell  her  to-night," 
he  thought,  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  a  match. 
He  was  late  to  his  dinner  that  afternoon.  Deb 
orah's  patience  evaporated  with  the  soup,  sim 
mering  an  hour  over  time  on  the  range.  But  her 
frowns  did  not  trouble  him.  Nothing  so  makes 
us  forget  our  small  trials  as  a  greater  one ;  and 
while  she  was  serving  him  in  a  silence  more  con 
demning  than  words,  he  was  thinking  how  he 
should  tell  Seraphine  that  evening,  and  wonder 
ing  whether  she  had  anything  to  tell  him.  Did 
she  love  Rowan  ?  The  thought  hurt  him,  for  we 
cannot  love  without  forsaking,  more  and  more, 
kindred  and  friends.  Then  the  face  of  Gladys 
appeared  to  him.  Her  nimble  imagination  and 
quick  taste  interested  him,  and  the  thought  that 
had  possessed  him  on  the  terrace  the  night  be 
fore  came  back  with  its  prophecy  of  unknown 
evil,  causing  him  to  think  of  Seraphine  with  a 
new  tenderness.  The  shelter  of  his  own  arm 
might  yet  be  necessary  to  her.  What  a  wizard 


156  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

love  is,  touching  this  one  to  regenerate,  and 
another  to  lay  moral  sense  in  ruins.  "  Bah !  " 
he  exclaimed,  rising  from  the  table.  "Mabel 
with  her  witches  is  not  more  foolish  than  I." 
Yet  he  could  not  altogether  rid  himself  of  his 
forebodings ;  the  heart  is  a  sure  prophst. 

In  the  study  he  found  Seraphine's  picture. 
Confronting  him  unexpectedly  as  it  did  when  he 
opened  the  door,  it  seemed  the  confirmation  of 
his  thoughts.  He  took  the  candle  from  the  ta 
ble,  and  approaching  the  portrait  held  the  light 
above  his  head.  What  strange  tricks  memory 
plays  with  our  eyes !  For  the  woods  on  the  Lesse 
are  like  those  of  Ashurst,  and,  as  he  gazed, 
through  their  dark  lanes  came  Noel.  The  black 
trunks  soared  like  the  pillars  of  an  aisle.  In  the 
flickering  flame  that  fell  upon  them,  he  saw  the 
stalls  under  the  windows,  the  leaning  pulpit  and 
stairs,  and,  standing  out  from  the  luminous  shad 
ows,  the  cross  above  the  altar,  at  whose  foot  was 
stretched  a  bier. 

He  replaced  the  candle  on  the  table  and  went 
out  the  door. 

The  moon  had  risen,  and  every  leaf  stood  clear 
cut  against  a  white  sky.  The  air  was  warm,  but 
the  oppressiveness  of  the  day  was  gone.  The 
shadows  of  the  trees  looked  not  so  cool  as  the 
whitened  fields  on  which  they  fell.  It  was  a 
night  when  Nature,  putting  aside  her  robes  of 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  157 

mist,  steps  forth  unveiled,  like  a  chaste  Diana, 
in  the  light  of  the  inoon. 

For  a  long  time  he  walked  the  path,  back  and 
forth,  under  the  sentinel  maples  which  lined  the 
road,  his  long  garment  flapping  at  his  heels.  At 
the  hedge  of  hawthorn  in  front  of  the  Flem 
ings'  he  stopped  to  listen.  A  strain  of  music 
came  through  the  open  window,  and  he  recog 
nized  the  touch  of  Seraphine.  She  seemed  to 
be  searching  for  something  in  a  wilderness  of 
sounds,  —  such  sounds  as  the  wind  calls  from 
the  harp,  the  vague  unrhythmed  measures  which 
set  revery  in  motion.  Among  these  sounds 
vibrated  at  intervals  a  note  like  a  human  voice, 
then  others  answered  it ;  gradually  these  notes 
fell  into  the  cadence  of  a  periodic  movement,  and 
at  last  united  in  melody.  He  seemed  to  be  lis 
tening  to  the  birth  of  a  song. 

Then  the  sounds  ceased.  After  waiting  a  mo 
ment  he  went  in.  Seraphine  was  alone  in  the 
sitting-room,  sewing. 

"  Where  is  Elize  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  about 
the  room. 

"  She  has  just  gone  to  her  chamber,"  replied 
Seraphine,  glancing  at  the  clock  ticking  OQ  the 
shelf  over  the  fireplace.  He  followed  her  eyes  ; 
it  was  later  than  he  had  thought.  He  crossed 
the  room  to  the  hearthstone,  where  two  tall  and 
irons  caught  the  light  on  their  polished  balls, 


158  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

and  stood  with  his  back  towards  them,  as  if  it 
were  not  broad  midsummer. 

"  And  Miss  Leigh  ?  " 

Seraphine  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  She  has 
gone  too." 

Miss  Leigh  was  an  aunt  of  Harold's  who  had 
lived  with  his  children  since  Madelon's  death. 
It  was  not  strange  that  Seraphine  smiled,  for 
Miss  Leigh  always  disappeared  when  a  visitor 
came,  even  Schonberg.  She  seemed  the  shadow 
of  a  human  being,  with  her  pale  face  and  white 
hair  ;  like  those  white  ferns  of  winter  which  the 
frosts  have  blanched,  and  which  wave  without 
rustling  over  the  snow  under  which  their  com 
panions  lie  buried. 

Seraphine,  looking  up  from  her  work,  saw 
Schonberg's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  in  silence,  and 
thought  of  what  Elize  had  once  said  to  him: 
"  You  have  two  kinds  of  silence ;  one  says, 
'Take  care,  go  no  further!'  the  other  would 
extract  from  me  my  secret  of  secrets." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  tell  me,  Seraphine  ? " 
he  asked  at  last. 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead,"  she  said,  smiling  again. 

"  But  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Seraphine  went  on  with  her  sewing. 

"  And  you  are  not  curious  ?  " 

"No,  Bluebeard,  I  am  not  curious,  since  you 
give  me  no  key." 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  159 

"  Some  one  has  presented  me  with  a  portrait," 
he  said,  after  another  interval  of  silence,  ap 
proaching  his  subject  indirectly,  through  an 
other. 

"Yes,  I  know."  And  Seraphine  bent  lower 
over  her  work. 

"  It  has  led  me  to  think,"  he  continued.  "  I 
had  forgotten ;  it  seems  only  yesterday  that 
you  were  a  little  girl.  But  in  reality  it  was 
long  ago." 

"  Yes,  in  one  way  it  was  long  ago.  One  for 
gets,  when  one  year  is  so  like  another." 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  For  a  mo 
ment  the  desire  to  defer  his  announcement  mas 
tered  him;  it  might  not  be  true,  and  in  that 
case —  "Come,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  ten 
derness  and  relief,  "  you  are  tired ;  follow  the 
example  of  Elize." 

"  Elize  was  sleepy,  I  am  tired ;  there  is  a 
great  difference.  Are  you  never  tired  of  ... 
being  tired  ?  Do  you  never  want  .  . .  change  .  .  . 
anything  but  sleep?"  And  she  lifted  her  eyes, 
in  which  he  saw  a  signal-light  to  his. 

"  You  have  been  sewing  too  long.  Come,  go 
to  bed,"  he  repeated. 

"  No,  I  had  rather  talk  with  you." 

"With  me?" 

"  Yes,  with  you.  What  do  you  suppose  I  am 
doing  here,  alone  .  .  .  sewing  ?  "  And,  laying 


160  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

down  her  work,  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 
"  No,  I  do  not  sew  ...  I  think.  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  for  I  am  tired  of  telling  the  trees,  — 
they  do  not  listen  ;  nor  the  brook  which  runs 
away,  nor  the  river  asleep,  —  they  talk,  but 
they  do  not  hear.  After  all,"  she  added,  taking 
up  her  work  again,  "  I  do  not  think,  I  dream. 
I  believe  I  am  a  little  homesick." 

Her  voice  struck  to  his  heart.  Dreams? 
They  are  the  whisperings  of  the  heart  that 
wakes,  and  asks  if,  of  all  the  passers-by,  none 
seeks  for  it ;  the  yearnings  of  the  young  bird, 
on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  for  the  spaces  of  air 
and  the  scorching  sun.  He  knew ;  and  he  fol 
lowed  her  words,  as  step  by  step  one  follows  at 
twilight  footprints  made  at  morn. 

"  Of  what  do  you  dream,  Seraphine  ?  " 
"  Of  so  many  things.  Of  Dinant,"  —  he 
crossed  his  hands  behind  him  with  a  motion  of 
surprise,  recalling  suddenly  the  forgotten  secret 
of  Elize,  —  "  with  its  white  houses  between  the 
river  and  the  rock.  The  chimes  of  the  tower 
wake  me  at  night.  I  see  the  lights  on  the 
bridge,  and  hear  the  rumble  of  the  wagons. 
When  Elize  is  asleep,  I  climb  there  above  the 
red  roofs,  in  the  shining  powder  of  the  rocks  be 
tween  the  walls  that  buttress  the  vines.  Moth 
er  used  to  tell  me  of  it,  and  every  scene  grew 
vivid  as  she  talked  with  me,  like  old  pictures 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  161 

retouched,  till  I  remembered  every  day  of  the 
summer  we  spent  there.  I  can  hear  the  very 
tinkle  of  Father  Gudin's  spoon  in  his  tumbler 
of  sugar  and  water,  and  the  rush  of  the  stream 
under  the  wheel  in  the  meadow;  and  see  the 
great  pike  the  gardener  stirred  from  their  sleep 
in  the  lilies  to  please  me.  Once  it  was  all  like 
a  story  I  had  read ;  now  it  is  a  life  I  have  lived. 
Of  what  else  shall  I  think  ?  Ah,  yes,  yes ! " 
she  said,  divining  the  thought  which  troubled 
his  face,  "  we  are  happy  here.  It  is  only  I  ... 
if  I  did  not  dream ! 

"  Do  you  remember  the  picture  of  the  chateau 
that  used  to  hang  there  where  you  stand,  and 
.  .  .  after  father  died  .  .  .  over  mother's  bed  ? 
She  loved  it,  but  I  —  I  have  put  it  away.  And 
that  other,  of  the  cottage  on  the  dunes  where  I 
was  born.  There  is  no  grass  so  sweet  to  me  as 
that  strong  yellow  spear  that  keeps  away  the 
sea,  and  holds  in  its  grasp  the  sliding  sands. 
Oh,  that  sea !  "  and  her  eyes  began  to  shine.  "  I 
hear  it  most  of  all.  There  were  days  when  I 
loved  it,  —  you  remember  them,  —  when  it  kissed 
my  feet  and  played  with  my  houses  of  sand, 
curling  about  their  foundations,  or  breaking 
with  a  laugh  in  little  waves  over  their  walls; 
and  days  when  I  feared  it,  yet  was  proud  of  its 
strength,  as  though  it  were  my  own;  when  I 
danced  in  the  wind  along  the  dunes,  and  we 


162  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. , 

shouted  together  alone,  it  and  I ;  when  the  fisher- 
women,  holding  me  fast,  pushed  their  nets  before 
them,  and  I  felt  its  cool  clasp  about  my  waist. 
How  we  laughed  and  chatted,  with  the  salt,  yel 
low  flower  of  the  sands  wreathed  in  our  hair,  — 
we  were  free,  then,  they  and  I,  like  our  great 
sea.  And  at  night  I  hear  it- — the  roar  of  the 
sea  —  chiding,  in  its  deep  voice,  or,  growing  an 
gry,  with  bursts  of  thunder  above  the  wind,  till 
I  sit  up  in  bed,  wide  awake,  beside  Elize,  listen 
ing,  as  if  some  one  called.  I  cannot  help  it; 
it  is  in  the  blood  ;  you  do  not  know ;  I  was  born 
there,  in  its  arms." 

Schonberg  had  not  moved. 

"  The  sea,  and  the  fields,"  he  said,  when  her 
voice  ceased,  "  they  are  the  same  everywhere  — 
here  as  there." 

But  as  he  spoke  his  thought  was  of  the  Lesse 
flowing  through  the  fields  of  Freyr. 

"  No,  you  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Seraphine. 
"  The  fields  and  the  sea,  they  are  nothing ;  but 
associations  "  — 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted,  "  they  are  the 
native  air." 

She  went  on,  looking  at  him  from  the  recess 
of  the  old  chintz-covered  chair,  framed  in  by  its 
high  square  sides  like  the  face  of  a  child  in  the 
white  cap  of  some  grandam. 

"  Then  the  long  journey  we  made.     I  remem- 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  163 

ber  it,  but  as  a  dream  ;  all  its  scenes  are  so  vivid, 
yet  so  confused :  the  cliffs  in  the  north,  covered 
with  sombre  pines ;  the  city,  with  lights  and 
flowers,  and  a  sharp-roofed  chamber  under  the 
tiles  ;  long  days  on  the  floating  river  boats  ;  theii 
a  great  blue  sea  and  a  tent  under  palms.  How 
can  I  help  thinking  of  these  things  ?  They  come 
and  go,  like  waves  rising  and  falling,  first  pleas 
ure  and  then  pain.  If  I  could  only  see  Dinant 
once  more,  and  the  black  cottage  on  the  dunes  ! 
Perhaps  ib  does  not  stand  there  any  longer; 
perhaps  the  sea  has  crept  under  it  at  last,  as 
it  threatened  to  do  when  I  lay  awake,  listen 
ing.  It  seems  as  if  to  look  once  would  satisfy 
me.  But  now,  all  these  memories  fill  me  with 
longing  and  desire  ;  they  are  the  breath  of  the 
roses  I  cannot  reach  coming  up  from  my  window 
wall." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  she  went  to  the  win 
dow.  Shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  Schon- 
berg  sat  down  in  her  chair. 

"  Think,  uncle,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  "  think  how  long  we  have  lived  here ; 
count  them,  the  years,  one  like  the  other  as  the 
trees  in  the  hedges."  She  moved  the  footstool 
towards  him  and  sat  down  at  his  feet.  "  Whom 
shall  I  tell,  if  not  you  ?  It  is  so  hard  to  repress, 
to  feign." 

"  Yes,  it  shortens  life,"  said  he. 


164  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  Why  should  we  not  go ;  and  you  with  us  ? 
When  I  think  of  Dinant  and  the  sea,  I  feel  as  I 
used  to  when  a  child  ;  when  I  read  *  Once  upon 
a  time  there  was  a  prince  '  .  .  .  Come !  "  she 
exclaimed,  stealing  his  hand,  "  take  us,  Elize 
and  I." 

There  was  no  day  he  did  not  think  of  Dinant, 
but  to  see  it  again  !  It  was  strange  he  had  not 
thought  of  that,  and  his  heart  thrilled  as  the 
heart  of  the  ruler  when  the  Master  said  to  the 
dead,  "  I  say  unto  thee,  Arise  !  " 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  uncle  ?  " 

"I,  angry?  No.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "  Why  do  you  not 
speak  ;  I  am  not  a  child." 

"You  wish  to  see  Dinant,  again,"  said  he, 
speaking  slowly ;  "  well,  you  can.  Your  grand 
father  is  dead,  and  you  are  the  Countess  Foy." 

Seraphine  rose  to  her  feet.  For  a  moment 
the  large  room  that  had  always  been  so  attrac 
tive  seemed  all  too  small  to  breathe  in,  and  her 
quiet  life  charged  with  power.  Had  she  not 
been  saving  money  these  two  months  to  buy  the 
golden  pin  which  Elize  wished  for  her  hair? 
Had  she  not  been  dreaming  as  the  bird,  safe 
from  the  hawk  in  its  cage,  dreams  of  the  wood 
glens?  And  now,  wealth,  freedom,  home,  Di 
nant,  and  the  sea  !  She  stood  a  moment  breath- 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  165 

less,  crossed  the  room  and  came  back  again  to 
his  chair,  then  went  out  quickly  upon  the  porch 
into  the  friendly  solitude  which  emotion  loves. 

The  night  was  still.  Only  the  plaintive  note 
of  the  wood  thrush  was  heard  in  the  far  woods. 
Above,  a  flock  of  little  clouds  floated  noiselessly 
up  to  the  moon,  where  they  vanished  in  thin 
veils  of  mist. 

She  could  not  have  told  how  long  she  had 
been  there  when  Schonberg  came  out,  his  cane 
in  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  There  was  a  look  on 
his  face  which  reproached  her.  Elize  would 
have  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  And  your  hat,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Did  I  wear  it  ?  I  forgot,"  said  he,  going 
back  for  it. 

"  But,  uncle,  you  have  not  kissed  me,"  said 
Seraphine,  as  he  started  again  towards  the  gate. 

He  turned  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  touch 
ing  her  cheek  with  his  short  grizzled  moustache. 
She  took  his  hands,  intercepting  his  retreat. 

"  Are  you  endeavoring  already  to  forget  Sera 
phine  Fleming  to  go  in  search  of  the  Countess 
Foy  ?  "  said  she.  "  I  warn  you  beforehand  you 
will  not  find  her." 

Straight  as  the  yellow  grass  of  the  dunes  she 
stood  before  him,  love  in  her  voice  and  eyes. 
But  the  remembrance  of  another  night  came 


166  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

back  to  him  ;  a  night  when  he  ran  down  the 
road  to  Anseremne  crying  Noel !  Noel  J 

"  It  is  a  little  sudden,  for  both  of  us ;  but  I 
am  glad,"  he  said.  She  slipped  her  arm  through 
his,  and  they  walked  together  down  the  path. 
"  It  is  a  great  relief  to  me."  He  was  poor  at 
disguises.  "  You  will  go  back  to  Dinant  now. 
There  will  be  no  more  worry  for  the  future ; " 
and  he  began  to  relate  in  a  very  matter-of-fact 
way  how  the  news  had  reached  him.  Seraphine 
smiled,  pressing  his  arm  closer.  And,  con 
strained  by  her  silence,  he  went  on.  He  had 
written  to  Dinant;  doubtless  they  would  hear 
from  there  soon ;  any  day  might  bring  a  letter. 
And  then,  nothing  would  prevent  their  imme 
diate  return;  they  were  rich  now;  this  was 
no  place  for  them !  And  reaching  his  gate  he 
kissed  her  again.  "  Run  back  and  tell  Elize," 
he  said  gayly ;  "  she  will  forgive  you  for  waking 
her." 

"  You  do  not  offer  to  show  me  your  present," 
said  Seraphine. 

"You  have  not  seen  it?"  he  replied  with  sur 
prise.  "  Come." 

He  pushed  open  the  study  door,  and  Ser 
aphine  went  in.  The  figure  on  the  canvas 
seemed  advancing  to  meet  her  out  of  the  forest, 
out  of  the  shadows  into  the  sunlight  on  the  edge 
of  the  wood  ;  and  her  heart  cried,  "  It  is  1 1  It 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  167 

is  I !  "  Its  beatings  frightened  her.  A  thou 
sand  thoughts  gathered  there  against  her  will, 
—  a  troop  of  fluttering  doves  thronging  the 
doors  of  the  dovecote  to  take  possession  of  a 
home  long  prepared  ;  a  thousand  longings,  hid 
den  there  like  the  young  larks  in  the  meadows, 
trembled  to  take  wing ;  but  above  all,  the  con 
sciousness  of  power,  —  power  to  suffer  and  com 
pel,  to  triumph  arid  defy. 

Something  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind, 
Schonberg  knew.  A  sudden  shyness  caused 
him  to  turn  his  back,  and  lighting  his  pipe  at 
the  candle  flame,  he  went  out  on  the  porch. 
She  joined  him  presently,  left  a  kiss  on  his  fore 
head,  but  before  he  could  rise  to  go  home  with 
her  was  gone  once  more  into  the  friendly  shel 
ter  of  solitude  and  night. 

He  listened  to  her  footsteps  growing  fainter 
on  the  walk.  The  light  in  her  chamber  shone 
awhile  through  the  trees,  then  went  out.  He 
watched  the  place  where  it  had  vanished  as  one 
watches  a  rift  in  the  clouds  behind  which  a  star 
disappears ;  then,  thrusting  his  pipe  into  the 
pocket  which,  with  time,  had  extended  itself  to 
the  border  of  his  yellow  gown,  went  in  and 
closed  the  door. 


168  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

XXV. 

Aunt  Isabel's  news  was  confirmed  the  next 
day  by  a  letter  leading  to  a  family  council  in 
the  tea-house,  a  council  resulting  in  the  determi 
nation  to  set  out  at  the  earliest  possible  moment 
for  Dinant.  Schonberg  was  to  accompany  them, 
while  Miss  Leigh,  not  one  to  endure  transplant 
ing,  was  to  remain  in  the  Ashurst  home.  Her 
permanent  settlement  in  the  old  house  was  the 
suggestion  of  Elize,  who,  in  spite  of  the  parable 
of  the  widow's  mite,  experienced  a  new-found 
pleasure  in  forming  munificent  and  vast  designs. 
She  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Schonberg's  return 
to  Ashurst  when  once  The  Snuggery  should 
be  forsaken.  He  doubted  it  himself,  while  re 
sisting,  with  the  acquired  instinct  of  prudence, 
her  more  enthusiastic  plans  for  an  immediate 
and  final  migration. 

He  had  related  to  Seraphine  his  interview 
with  Aunt  Isabel,  telling  her  of  the  latter's  de 
sire  to  see  her:  and  it  was  Seraphine  herself 
who  proposed  they  should  make  the  visit  that 
afternoon.  They  were  met  on  the  terrace  by 
Gladys,  who  in  person  conducted  Seraphine  to 
her  aunt's  chamber,  and  who,  before  opening 
the  door,  had  quietly  weighed  her  guest  in  those 
delicate  balances  society  furnishes  its  members. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  169 

Seraphine  was  looking  unusually  well  that 
afternoon,  —  so  well  that  Gladys,  on  her  way 
down  the  stairs  to  rejoin  Schonberg,  paused  a 
moment  before  the  mirror  to  receive  back  the 
answer  which  angered  the  Queen  in  the  Russian 
fable. 

Left  to  himself,  Schonberg  had  found  under 
the  shade  of  an  elm  a  seat  which  he  preferred 
to  the  chairs  on  the  terrace.  Just  above  him 
a  small  brook,  drawn  out  of  its  channel  to  fur 
nish  a  little  music  for  Gladys'  shrubberies,  had 
broken  away  from  its  artificial  bed,  spreading 
itself  noiselessly  through  the  grass,  whose  myriad 
blades  sent  a  ripple  of  shimmering  light  up  the 
slope. 

Discovering  his  retreat,  Gladys  took  her  par 
asol  and  joined  him. 

She  had  herself  been  sitting  there  that  after 
noon,  whose  hours  had  hung  heavily.  After 
lunch  she  had  shut  herself  in  her  room  to  imi 
tate  Aunt  Isabel's  example ;  but  sleep  had  not 
come,  though  the  air  was  drowsy.  She  had  taken 
her  embroidery  out  under  the  awning,  but  the 
pastime  had  become  a  task,  and  was  soon  aban 
doned.  She  had  loitered  a  half  hour  in  the 
library,  turning  over  leaves  which  failed  to  in 
terest  her  ;  to  take  refuge  finally  with  Aunt  Isa 
bel,  whose  quick  eye  had  noted  her  restlessness, 
and  who  had  lent  her  a  book,  with  which  she 


170  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

had  retreated  to  the  seat  under  the  elm.  This 
book,  of  a  class  her  aunt  sometimes  affected, 
proved  to  be  one  of  those  unanswerable  homilies 
on  the  conduct  of  life  whose  logic  is  irresistible 
because,  as  in  a  mathematical  theory,  all  uncer 
tain  factors  which  might  disturb  the  conclusions 
are  excluded  from  the  premises.  Having  pil 
laged  the  last  chapter,  Gladys  had  thrown  it 
aside  with  a  contemptuous  smile.  This  moral 
multiplication  table  did  not  furnish  her  the  prod 
ucts  she  was  looking  for  ;  besides,  there  was  a 
robin  in  the  elm  branches  overhead,  whose  per 
sistent  liquid  note  of  happiness  irritated  her. 
It  was  very  harassing  to  her,  who  usually  kept 
her  objective  point  so  steadily  in  view,  not  to 
know  her  own  mind.  Her  will,  which  had  al 
ways  run  so  smoothly  in  its  channel,  had  sud 
denly  divided,  and,  like  a  river  lost  in  the  num 
berless  ways  of  a  marshy  level,  hesitated  where 
to  gather  again.  We  defer  a  decision,  because 
to  decide  is  to  accept  consequences  and  assume 
responsibilities  ;  meanwhile  irresolution  creates 
heavier  burdens. 

On  his  return  from  shooting,  Jack  had  told 
her  Rowan  expected  her  that  morning ;  and 
she  had  not  gone.  She  was  vexed  now  at  hav 
ing  stayed  away.  The  appearance  of  visitors 
had  been  a  relief.  She  was  curious  to  see  Sera- 
phine  again,  partly  because  of  her  history,  which 


THE   WIND    OF  DESTINY.  171 

she  had  heard  from  Aunt  Isabel,  and  partly  — 
Nor  was  she  sorry  to  see  Schonberg,  who,  since 
that  night  on  the  terrace,  exercised  over  her  an 
attraction  mingled  with  dread.  She  took  her 
seat  a  little  behind  him,  where  she  could  watch 
his  face,  wavering  between  the  impulse  to  sur 
render  to  the  influence  she  felt  in  his  presence 
and  the  resolve  of  her  pride  to  rebel.  In  this 
state  of  indecision  chance  took  the  reins  again 
out  of  her  hands  ;  for  his  face,  deep  in  thought, 
which  even  her  approach  had  not  apparently  dis 
turbed,  was  like  a  still  lake,  into  which  she  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  throwing  a  stone. 

"  Shall  you  return  to  France  with  Miss  Flem 
ing?"  she  hazarded. 

"  Why  do  you  make  plans  for  us  ?  "  he  re 
plied. 

Gladys  colored,  though  he  was  not  looking  at 
her. 

"  It  is  like  a  page  from  the  Arabian  Nights," 
she  continued,  "  to  wake  so,  in  a  moment,  to 
wealth  and  power  and  —  love !  Why  not  say 
it?"  she  pursued,  with  a  smile  on  her  mouth 
but  malice  in  her  voice.  "  Is  it  not  so  ?  Noth 
ing  in  all  the  world  so  stares  one  in  the  eyes 
as  a  pair  of  lovers." 

"  Why  speak  of  it  at  all,  since  it  does  not 
concern  us  ?  "  said  Schonberg,  dryly. 

"  Me,  no ;  but  you.     Do  you  think  I  am  in- 


172  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

dulging  my  imagination  ?  You  are  mistaken. 
My  cousin  himself  has  told  me.  One  must  have 
a  confidante,  you  know." 

"  Your  cousin  does  not  know  the  proverb, 
then,"  said  he. 

"What  one?" 

"  '  Thy  friend  has  a  friend,  and  thy  friend's 
friend  has  a  friend  ;  be  discreet.'  " 

She  laughed  frankly  ;  and  then,  seriously,  "  I 
should  be  glad  to  think  you  were  my  friend." 

Leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
drawing  figures  with  his  cane  on  the  gravel, 
Schonberg  made  no  reply  to  this  proposition, 
and  Gladys  returned  to  her  subject.  "  Perhaps 
you  have  other  plans  for  Miss  Fleming  now. 
It  does  concern  me  a  little,  after  all ;  Rowan  is 
my  cousin,  you  know." 

"Plans!  what  plans?"  said  he,  looking  at 
her. 

"  More  ambitious  ones." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  resumed  his 
tracing. 

"  Oh,  you  disdain  ambition  ?  " 

"  No,  I  fear  it." 

"  You  !  "  exclaimed  Gladys,  opening  her  eyes 
incredulously. 

"  Yes,  for  others.  Ambition  only  discloses 
one's  riches  or  poverty.  We  project  ourselves 
into  everything.  Wealth,  power,  solitude,  love, 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  173 

—  they  are  all  treasures  or  trifles.  What  we 
have  is  always  what  we  are." 

"  You  should  not  include  love  in  your  cata 
logue,  Dr.  Schonberg.  Friendship,  yes,  for  in 
friendship  one  gives  what  one  has ;  but  in  love 
the  values  are  fictitious,  and  imagination  fixes 
the  price." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  went  on,  half  in 
earnest,  half  in  jest.  Gladys  loved  to  hover 
about  the  border  line  of  seriousness. 

"  You  did  not  respond  to  my  desire  to  have 
you  for  a  friend.  According  to  your  theory  of 
projection,  you  could  not  be  a  loser,  and  I  might 
gain  a  great  deal." 

Schonberg  looked  at  her  again.  "  The  foun 
dation  of  friendship  is  sincerity." 

"  But  not  too  much,"  said  Gladys. 

An  interval  of  silence  followed,  during  which 
he  watched  the  ants  running  excitedly  about  the 
ruins  made  by  his  cane. 

"  What  is  it  that  troubles  you,  my  child  ?  "  he 
said  suddenly,  turning  towards  her. 

She  had  not  expected  such  a  question,  but  a 
kindness  had  stolen  unawares  into  his  voice,  — 
and  it  is  pleasant  sometimes  even  to  be  called  a 
child. 

"  Troubles  me  ?  "  she  stammered.  "  What 
troubles  any  one  ?  Circumstances  —  fate  "  — 

"  So !  "  said  Schonberg,  "  they  terrify  you  ? 


174  TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Listen.  I  once  knew  a  child  born  in  the  street 
Misery,  in  the  city  of  Poverty.  His  eyes  opened 
upon  the  implacable  duel  between  want  and 
famine.  His  earliest  recollection  was  of  a  long 
December  night,  long  and  cold,  daring  which 
he  listened  to  the  difficult  breathing  of  a  woman, 
dying.  It  was  his  mother.  She  had  taken  his 
hand  at  dusk.  She  had  not  told  him,  yet  he 
knew  that  this  consoled  her.  In  an  hour  she 
was  a  nothing  —  a  mere  pair  of  lungs  struggling 
for  breath,  two  eyes  that  stared  and  saw  noth 
ing,  a  muscle  contracting  about  his  hand  and 
holding  him  fast.  And  he  —  well,  at  last  he 
fell  asleep !  And  when  he  woke  it  was  morn 
ing  ;  the  lungs  were  still,  the  eyes  fixed,  and  the 
muscle  a  vise.  This  child  was  a  bundle  of 
nerves,  capable  of  enduring  hunger,  but  trem 
bling  at  a  reproach.  Yet  amid  the  filth  of  that 
street  with  its  narrow  strip  of  murky  sky  over 
head,  that  child  dreamed  —  saw  what  it  had 
never  seen,  peaceful  fields  and  a  blue  heaven. 
In  the  brutal  pressure  of  life  these  dreams  went 
up  like  the  perfume  of  a  flower  growing  in  the 
dark.  What  wras  circumstance  to  him !  Some 
one  will  say,"  he  continued,  "  that  an  ancestor 
transmitted  to  this  child  in  the  one  ten-billionth 
of  a  grain  all  this  power  to  survive  the  ferocious 
enmity  of  circumstances,  and  to  draw  from  those 
very  nerves  which  trembled  floods  of  vague 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  175 

hope  and  wild  courage  ;  and  that  this  ancestor 
did  not  originate  this  grain  of  power  any  more 
than  did  the  child  to  whom  he  transmitted  it. 
Fate !  well,  be  it  so.  But  fate  is  not  all  —  na 
ture  is  not  so  niggardly.  What !  she  steeps  the 
world  in  power  from  crust  to  centre,  and  leaves 
the  heart  a  beggar,  to  pick  up  stray  crumbs  from 
an  ancestor's  table  !  Search,  dig,  —  you  will 
find  it  more  plentiful  than  the  coal  in  the  rocks." 

Overcome  as  by  a  flood  from  a  great  reservoir 
that  had  burst  upon  her  little  world  and  swept 
it  from  its  foundations,  Gladys  could  not  speak. 
His  words  had  brushed  away  her  defenses  like 
cobwebs. 

"  Phrases  !  words  !  "  said  he,  getting  up  from 
his  seat  and  sitting  down  again.  "  Who  would 
imagine  they  had  such  power ;  that  a  single  one, 
fate,  for  example,  —  four  little  letters,  —  could 
put  so  mighty  a  thing  as  conscience  to  sleep  ? 
And  circumstances  !  there  is  a  fine  one  —  an  al 
lopathic  dose  that  will  still  conscience  like  a 
drop  of  poison." 

"  Dr.  Schonberg,"  exclaimed  Gladys,  rising 
abruptly  and  confronting  him  with  a  face  white 
with  fear  and  passion,  "  are  you  giving  me  ad 
vice  ?  " 

"  Advice  ?  "  he  replied,  looking  straight  into 
her  eyes,  "  what  are  you  resolved  upon  ?  " 

"  Resolved  upon  ?  "  she  repeated,  confusedly. 


176  THE   WIND  OF  DEBT  INT. 

"Yes,  resolved  upon.  When  one's  mind  is 
made  up,  one  looks  about  for  advice  —  wind  to 
the  ship  making  port !  It  matters  little  which 
way  it  blows." 

"  Well,  and  suppose  I  wished  for  it,"  a  feel 
ing  of  recklessness  getting  possession  of  her, 
"I  know  beforehand  what  you  would  say. 
Duty !  a  little  word  with  four  letters ;  what 
power  these  little  words  have!  One  has  only 
to  say  '  duty  '  to  a  struggling  wretch  to  fill  one's 
heart  with  complacency.  And  '  struggle,'  "  she 
continued  with  mocking  passion,  "there  is  an 
other  fine  one.  Struggle  ?  One  does  not  strug 
gle  with  a  babbling  brook,  and  with  a  torrent 
one  cannot.  See  that  ant  which  fights  with  the 
end  of  your  stick." 

She  stopped.  Seraphine  was  coming  down 
the  terrace  steps.  The  breeze  slid  from  leaf  to 
leaf,  dropped  on  the  grass  like  a  cloud's  shadow, 
and  vanished.  The  water  shimmered  down  the 
slope  beside  them  to  the  stones,  whence  came 
soft  hollow  noises  like  the  notes  of  certain  wood 
birds. 

"  Cannot  ?  how  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Schon- 
berg. 

"  By  hearsay,"  replied  Gladys  coldly.  She 
was  watching  Seraphine,  who,  not  seeing  them, 
began  to  walk  down  the  lawn  towards  the  gate. 

"  Fate,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand  in  his  some- 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  177 

what  rude  fashion  of  greeting,  "  since  you  be 
lieve  in  it,  has  perhaps  thrown  us  together. 
Pardon  me,  I  am  an  old  man,  will  you  come  and 
see  me  ?  "  She  had  regained  possession  of  her 
self,  but  his  warm  hand  caused  her  to  tremble. 
"  Certainly  I  should  have  said  duty,  if  you  had 
not  said  it  yourself ;  we  cannot  get  away  from 
it ;  we  are  tied  to  it  with  a  rope,  and  the  rope 
will  not  break,  even  in  the  torrent.  Duty,  and 
resignation,  and  the  approval  of  self  —  there  is 
nothing  else." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ? "  said  Sera- 
phine,  who  on  hearing  his  footstep  had  turned, 
and  stood  swinging  the  tip  of  her  parasol 
through  the  grass. 


XXVI. 

Left  rather  abruptly  within  Aunt  Isabel's 
door,  Seraphine  had  hesitated  for  a  moment  un 
der  the  old  lady's  silent  survey.  Her  first 
thought,  on  seeing  the  face  which  interrogated 
hers  so  silently,  was  that  it  had  once  been  beau 
tiful  ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  that 
it  has  been  were  sadder  words  than  it  might  have 
been. 

"  So  you  are  the  daughter  of  Madelon  Foy. 
Bless  me !  she  was  younger  than  you  are  when 


178  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

I  last  saw  her.  You  do  not  look  a  bit  like 
her." 

"  My  mother  was  beautiful,"  said  Seraphine. 

"  So  was  your  grandmother,  and  you  are  the 
image  of  her,"  rejoined  Aunt  Isabel,  taking  the 
reluctant  hand.  "  You  do  not  remember  her  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Seraphine,  sitting  down. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  conie  and  see  me.  Be 
tween  us,  love  is  a  very  one-sided  affair.  Non 
sense,  child,"  she  exclaimed,  answering  Sera- 
phine's  eyes  ;  "  why  should  you  pretend  to  love 
an  old  woman  whom  you  have  never  seen  ?  You 
see,  my  dear,  we  old  people  remind  you  of  noth 
ing,  while  you  children  remind  us  of  everything." 

"I  am  not  altogether  a  child,"  said  Seraphine. 

"  Nor  I  an  old  woman.  We  both  amuse  our 
selves  with  words.  The  truth  is,  we  are  children 
till  our  hearts  are  broken.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  now  ?  Go  back  to  France  ?  Ah,  I  see ; 
we  have  been  dreaming  of  it  already." 

"  Is  it  strange  ?     I  remember  Dinant  well." 

"  Yes,  but  Dinant  is  a  dismal  place,  —  I  passed 
a  summer  there  with  your  grandmother,  —  more 
dismal  than  Ashurst,  even.  Do  you  expect  to 
spend  your  life  in  an  old  dungeon  on  the  top  of 
a  rock?" 

"You  had  my  grandmother.  I  shall  have 
Elize  and  my  uncle,"  replied  Seraphine. 

Aunt  Isabel  drew  the  young  girl  towards  her 
and  kissed  her  cheek. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  179 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  and  the  fat  carp  in  the  ponds. 
You  will  have  a  famous  time !  You  will  show 
your  satins  to  the  sheep,  and  dazzle  the  bourgeois 
with  the  Foy  diamonds." 

Seraphine  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  so  large.  I  had 
in  mind  a  little  girl,  —  quite  a  little  girl.  Time 
passes  so  quickly ; "  and  the  old  lady  sighed. 
"  At  all  events,  the  old  fool  is  dead  1  "  she 
added,  energetically. 

"  Do  you  mean  my  grandfather  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  your  grandfather.  You  need  not 
blush  for  him,  my  dear.  One  fool  in  the  family ! 
it  is  nothing.  But  tell  me  about  your  mother." 
And  in  answer  to  Aunt  Isabel's  questions,  Sera 
phine  told  the  simple  story  of  Madelon's  life  in 
Ashurst. 

"  Poor  mother !  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  What 
agony  to  leave  you." 

"  I  do  not  think  mother  was  sorry  to  die,"  said 
Seraphine,  quietly.  "  She  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  leaving  Elize.  We  used  to  talk  a  great  deal 
together  after  Elize  was  put  to  bed.  Once,  when 
•I  could  not  help  crying,  she  took  my  head  in  her 
hands  and  said,  'You  must  not  cry.  When  the 
heart  is  sure  that  it  has  exhausted  everything,  it 
is  ready  to  sleep.' ' 

"  What  does  that  mean?  "  asked  Aunt  Isabel, 
looking  at  Seraphine  with  a  kind  of  wonder. 


180  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

"  She  meant  that  she  had  loved,  and  been 
loved,"  said  Seraphine,  simply. 

The  old  lady  turned  away  her  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  follow  her  thought  into  some  far  away 
place. 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  her. 

"  What  is  it,  Jane  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Madam  wished  me  to  read  her  letters  to 
her"  — 

"  Presently,  not  now.  I  will  ring.  You  must 
bring  Elize  also  to  see  me,  my  dear,"  she  said  to 
Seraphine,  taking  up  the  letters  lying  on  the 
table. 

"  If  you  wished  —  if  you  would  allow  me  "  — 
said  Seraphine,  looking  at  the  letters. 

"  Allow  you !  with  all  my  heart.  Ah,  here  is 
one  from  my  good  friend  Savary,"  she  exclaimed, 
glancing  at  the  superscriptions.  "Draw  your 
chair  near  me." 

"  I  will  sit  down  here,  if  you  please,"  said  Ser 
aphine,  moving  the  footstool  beside  her. 

She  took  her  seat,  and  beginning  to  open  the 
letters,  felt  a  hand  pass  over  her  hair  and  rest 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,"  Aunt  Isabel  was  saying 
to  herself. 

Seraphine  unfolded  the  first  of  the  pile  lying 
in  her  lap,  and  commenced  to  read  in  a  voice 
which  trembled  a  little. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  181 

"  Never  mind  that  one,"  interrupted  Aunt  Isa 
bel.  "  It  is  to  tell  ine  that  rents  are  falling." 

Seraphine  laid  it  upon  the  table  and  took  up 
another. 

"No,  nor  that  one  either.  It  is  from  my 
doctor,  and  I  know  what  he  will  say.  Poor 
man !  he  is  at  his  wit's  end.  He  wishes  me  to 
drag  myself  to  some  spring,  where  they  sell  the 
elixir  of  life  by  the  glass.  Ah,  at  last ! "  she 
exclaimed,  as  Seraphine  took  up  a  letter  post 
marked  Eman ;  "  that  will  tell  us  something 
about  our  good-for-nothing  Rowan." 

A  faint  color  stole  into  Seraphine's  face. 

"  Ma  chere  amie"  she  faltered. 

"  Wait,  my  dear ;  I  must  tell  you.  Monsieur 
Savary  is  a  very  old  friend,"  —  the  old  lady 
sighed,  —  "  and  when  I  say  very  old  I  mean  very 
good;  it  is  the  same  thing.  He  has  had  the 
kindness  to  watch  a  little  for  me  over  my 
nephew.  Now  begin ;  let  us  hear  what  he  has 
to  say." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  resumed  Seraphine,  grate 
ful  for  this  moment  of  recovery,  "  I  deny  myself 
even  the  pleasure  of  presenting  my  respects  and 
inquiring  after  your  health,  to  inform  you  at 
once  of  the  reasons  you  ask  for  your  nephew's 
departure  for  his  native  land.  Mafoi,  my  dear 
friend,  they  are  very  simple,  but  like  some  sim 
ple  things  they  are  very  difficult  to  explain. 


182  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Without  doubt  you  know  this  dear  nephew  bet 
ter  than  I,  who  have  seen  him  only  from  time  to 
time  ;  nevertheless  you  will  permit  me  to  enter 
into  certain  details  which  appear  to  me  neces 
sary,  in  order  that  you  should  understand  what 
has  taken  place." 

"  I  think  I  ought  not  to  read  this  letter,"  said 
Seraphine,  looking  up  from  the  page. 

"Do  you  know  my  nephew?"  asked  Aunt 
Isabel. 

"  I  may,"  replied  Seraphine,  letting  her  eyes 
fall  again. 

"  Continue,"  said  the  old  lady,  pressing  her 
shoulder  gently.  "  When  you  reach  anything 
which  I  think  you  should  not  hear,  I  will  warn 

you." 

Seraphine  bent  her  head  over  the  letter  and 
began  to  read  again. 

"  It  is  not  agreeable  to  be  repulsed  by  for 
tune.  In  affairs  of  the  heart  the  evil  is  not  so 
great ;  it  wounds  the  -vanity,  on  the  other  hand 
one  preserves  one's  illusions.  But  in  the  serious 
business  of  life  it  impairs  the  courage,  and  with 
out  courage  the  will  becomes  only  a  desire.  I 
make  no  pretensions  to  understand  your  sex,  but 
I  affirm  that  life  assumes  in  our  eyes  more  nat 
urally  its  true  meaning ;  we  perceive  more  clearly 
that  it  is  a  task,  not  a  dream  —  not  even  a  pleas 
ure.  Herein  also  lies  our  advantage.  For  you, 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  183 

the  greatest  of  misfortunes  is  to  be  too  early  dis 
illusioned  ;  for  us,  after  the  Isles  of  the  Blessed 
sink  from  sight  there  remains  the  ocean  of  ac 
tivity.  Ask  yourself  then,  my  dear  friend,  if  a 
dream  which  cannot  be  realized  is  for  you  so 
terrible,  what  must  be  for  us  a  task  which  can 
not  be  accomplished. 

"  I  remember  well  the  impression  which  your 
nephew  first  made  upon  me  ;  a  nature  which  the 
practical  young  men  of  to-day  disdain.  So  much 
the  worse  for  them !  There  are  weaknesses  easy 
to  ridicule  but  difficult  to  reproach.  It  was 
evident  to  me  that  he  had  not  received  an  edu 
cation  requisite  for  success.  Ah,  when  I  remem 
ber  the  black  coat  with  its  rose  in  the  button 
hole  in  which  I  received  my  diploma,  tied  in  a 
white  ribbon  !  I,  who  could  write  verses  in  the 
style  of  Horace  or  satires  in  the  style  of  Juvenal, 
and  who  was  delivered  over  to  the  world  by  my 
worthy  teachers  as  the  Athenians  sent  their  vir 
gins  to  the  Minotaur,  decorated  with  garlands ! 
Surely,  of  all  the  sciences  whose  progress  we 
boast,  education  is  the  rear  guard.  This  is  in 
evitable.  How  reconcile  the  external  conditions 
of  man's  existence  with  his  destiny  !  Rowan  is 
the  embodiment  of  this  antithesis.  Never  have 
I  seen  one  in  whom  the  gifts  of  nature  struggled 
so  constantly  with  those  of  experience. 

"  But  you  will  ask  me,  why  this  failure  ?     It 


184  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

seems  to  me  failure  is  so  common  that  it  does 
not  merit  an  explanation,  and  that  but  for  the 
love  which  you  entertain  for  your  nephew,  ex 
planation  would  be  unnecessary.  And  then,  in 
matters  of  Art,  I  know  so  little.  However,  let 
us  try.  You  will  say  that  he  loves  his  profes 
sion  —  granted ;  that  he  has  a  lively  imagina 
tion  —  I  admit  it ;  and  to  this  he  owes  a  facility 
of  composition  which  is  marvelous,  not  to  speak 
of  his  coloring,  which,  when  he  deigns  to  color, 
is  as  light  as  a  poet's  rhythm.  Why  then,  you 
ask,  why  then  is  it  that  with  so  much  enthusiasm, 
such  conscientious  study,  such  seriousness  in 
spired  by  such  ambition,  the  public  —  that  good 
public  we  love  and  fear  so  well  —  will  have  none 
of  him  ?  Because  he  ignores  this  excellent  pub 
lic  altogether.  I  assure  you  I  know  no  more  of 
Art  than  the  painter  of  signs.  I  do  not  judge, 
I  explain.  But  who  would  give  to  a  young  man 
about  to  enter  a  salon  the  advice,  '  Respect  no 
foibles  and  combat  every  opinion  ? '  It  is  the 
same  in  this  great  social  organism,  life.  I  do 
not  say  that  your  nephew  attacks  ;  he  does  what 
for  him  is  worse  —  he  ignores.  Of  what  use  is 
it  to  paint  Madonnas  which  no  one  buys  ?  I  had 
a  chat  not  long  since  with  his  master,  who,  by 
the  way,  has  the  medal  of  honor.  "  Much  talent, 
but  a  dreamer ;  he  will  accomplish  nothing." 
That  was  his  verdict.  Assuredly  all  the  great 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  185 

leaders  from  Plato  to  Napoleon  have  been  dream 
ers.  But,  madame,  there  are  no  longer  any  lead 
ers,  and  of  what  use  is  it  to  lead  where  no  one 
follows  !  This  is  the  age  of  ideas,  but  every  one 
has  his  own;  there  are  no  more  masters,  no 
great  rivalries,  only  jealousies ;  no  great  schools, 
no  systems.  There  are  those  who  rejoice  in  this 
democracy,  in  these  terrible  agencies  which  in 
lifting  everything  level  everything.  For  me  it  is 
a  chaos,  a  period  of  transition,  in  whose  feverish 
heat  every  egg  of  theory  hatches  and  none  live. 

"  I  have  above  my  desk  a  canvas  which  Rowan 
gave  to  me  on  parting.  It  is  the  figure  of  the 
Virgin  standing  by  the  infant  Christ  asleep.  I 
cannot  convey  to  you  the  expression  of  that 
mother,  whose  ears  seem  to  hear  the  wings  of 
protecting  angels,  yet  whose  eyes  also  seem  to 
see  the  last  great  scene  of  the  Cross.  And  over 
all  a  softness  of  touch,  an  indecision  of  outline 
—  one  would  say  the  mist  of  incense  ascending 
before  the  lights  of  the  altar. 

"  As  I  look  I  hear  the  words  of  the  master  to 
whom  I  showed  it,  '  The  artist  can  no  longer 
consecrate  himself  to  religious  symbolism.  The 
age  in  which  we  live  demands  realities,  not  em 
blems.' 

"  '  And  the  renaissance  ? '  I  asked. 

" '  A  renaissance,'  he  replied,  '  is  a  souvenir. 
The  past  is  but  the  point  (Tappui)  the  source 


186  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

of  inspiration.  Remember  the  words  of  Goethe  : 
If  you  wish  to  be  great,  fill  your  mind  and  heart 
with  the  thoughts  and  sentiments  of  the  age  in 
which  you  live.  These  pictures,'  he  continued, 
looking  at  the  canvas,  '  have  the  merit  only  of 
an  echo.  They  are  the  reflection  of  a  mysticism 
at  which  we  wonder,  but  in  which  we  no  longer 
believe.  The  fault  of  your  prot6g£  is  that,  in 
reproducing  this  mysticism,  he  has  also  the  mis 
fortune  to  believe  in  it.' 

"  '  What  a  paradox  !  '  I  answered.  '  The 
spirit  of  the  age  —  realism  ! ' 

"  Doubtless,  my  dear  friend,  this  learned  man 
who  has  the  medal  of  honor  is  right,  for  the 
time  being.  We  have  yet  to  see  whether  in  this 
vaunted  realism  we  are  to  find  the  new  strength 
which  the  earth  gave  to  the  fainting  Antaeus. 
As  for  me,  I  verily  believe  that  if  Goethe  were 
alive  to-day  he  would  reject  his  own  advice,  and 
at  such  a  price  renounce  greatness,  though  it 
courted  him  with  the  tongue  of  Sappho.  Real 
ism  forsooth  !  I  much  prefer  that  of  Louis  XV. 
to  ours,  for  the  former  at  least  was  brilliant, 
lively,  delicate,  and  rose  into  the  region  of  the 
imagination  ;  but  to-day  spirituality  disappears 
behind  formulae.  You  see  at  last  I  am  growing 
old,  since  I  sermonize  and  grumble. 

"  You  have  asked  me  why  Rowan  returns  to 
Ashurst.  Well,  I  have  said  it,  —  failure.  Yes, 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  187 

failure.  But  do  not  imagine  that  you  are  to  find 
in  him  one  of  the  dejected  or  cynical  products  of 
this  age  of  competition.  For  these  romanticists 
—  what  do  they  care  for  failure  ?  They  suffer 
most,  and  are  the  worst  of  optimists ;  they  bleed 
so  easily,  but  who  ever  saw  one  die  ?  The  suf 
fering  which  engulfs  us  is  a  spring-board  from 
which  they  vault  into  the  empyrean.  Say  to 
your  nephew  '  failure,'  and  he  will  laugh  in 
your  face.  No,  it  is  only  a  pecuniary  pressure, 
to  which  we  must  surrender  though  we  despise 
it,  that  leads  your  nephew  to  abandon  Paris. 
That  legacy  which  his  mother  left  him  yields,  I 
think,  next  to  nothing ;  his  painting  nothing  at 
all.  The  world  laughs  at  a  fool  who  will  not 
stoop  to  pick  up  flattery  and  florins.  But  I 
have  a  lurking  respect  for  fools.  To  despise 
money  is  to  despise  a  king,  to  listen  to  flattery 
is  to  mortgage  one's  worth  to  one's  enemy. 
Still,  I  repeat,  your  nephew  does  not  roll  in 
gold,  and  I  say  this  to  you  lest  you  should  not 
discover  it." 

"  Humph  !  "  interjected  Aunt  Isabel. 

"  Perhaps  also  at  night  he  mistakes  some 
times  the  roar  of  the  wheels  for  the  murmur 
of  the  fine  rain  on  the  roof  of  his  chamber  in 
Ashurst. 

"  And  now  to  answer  your  last  question.  No, 
absolutely  No  !  I,  who  know  so  well,  alas !  the 


188  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

symptoms  of  this  malady,  declare  it  to  you. 
This  seems  impossible  to  you,  my  dear  friend, 
who,  pardon  me,  have  seen  so  many  at  your  feet. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  true.  And  in  place  of  such 
tragedies  as  I  might  have  to  relate  to  you,  there 
is  only  this  idyl  which  will  explain  the  check  I 
inclose  with  this  letter. 

"  I  called  at  his  rooms  to  attend  to  certain 
matters  remaining  after  his  departure.  While 
there  I  heard  a  timid  knock,  and  opening  the 
door  I  saw  a  young  girl,  modestly  clad  in  a  gray 
dress  "  — 

"  Continue,"  said  Aunt  Isabel. 

"  She  was  confused  at  seeing  me,  and  re 
mained  without  saying  a  word.  '  What  do  you 
desire,  Mademoiselle  ? '  I  asked.  '  Monsieur '  — 
she  said,  and  her  eyes  wandered  about  the 
apartment  which  was  vacant.  '  Is  gone,'  I  re 
plied.  '  Ah ! '  she  murmured.  '  You  desire  to 
see  him  ?  '  '  Yes.'  '  But  he  is  gone.'  Still  she 
made  no  motion  to  go.  *  Well,'  said  I,  ill  at 
ease,  '  what  service  can  I  render  you  ? '  She 
hesitated  a  moment.  '  You  know  him  ? '  at 
length  she  asked.  I  assured  her  I  knew  him 
well.  She  then  drew  from  her  pocket  a  small 
purse,  her  fingers  trembled,  and  took  from  it 
five  bills  of  one  hundred  francs  each.  '  I  wish 
to  give  him  these,'  she  continued ;  '  you  will 
send  them  to  him?'  'Assuredly,'  I  replied, 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  189 

*  but  from  whom  ? '  A  blush  covered  her  face, 
and  she  bent  her  head.  '  He  will  know ;  say 
for  me,  please,  God  does  not  forget  a  good  ac 
tion.'  '  It  seems  that  you  do  not  forget  one 
either,'  I  replied.  '  Adieu,  Monsieur,'  she  said 
hurriedly. 

"  I  inquired  of  the  concierge  —  nothing ;  he 
had  never  seen  her  before. 

"  Often  in  my  thoughts  I  have  seen  this  young 
girl  again ;  an  ordinary  face,  but  with  sweet  eyes 
and  a  charming  air  of  modesty.  Her  dress  was 
scrupulously  neat,  but  poor ;  one  does  not  ordi 
narily  see  bank  notes  of  one  hundred  francs  in 
the  pockets  of  such  a  dress. 

"  Draw  from  this  what  you  will.  To  me  it  is 
evident  that  there  is  for  your  nephew  something 
in  life  which  he  has  not  yet  experienced. 

"  My  letter  is  finished.  I  write  to  you  from 
Evian,  where  I  am  passing  a  few  weeks  for  my 
health.  You  remember  this  town,  bordering  the 
lake  in  whose  blue  depths  the  mountains  are 
mirrored.  The  swallows  glide  above  it,  grazing 
the  surface  with  their  wings ;  and  as  I  lay  down 
my  pen  I  confess  that  it  also  has  but  touched 
the  surface.  Below,  lie  the  images  of  the  moun 
tains  in  the  deeps  of  the  lake." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Aunt  Isabel,  as  Ser- 
aphine  finished.  "  Think  of  it,"  taking  the 


190  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

letter  over  the  latter's  shoulder,  "  so  many  fine 
phrases  to  tell  us  that  our  nephew  is  a  good-for- 
nothing  !  "  Seraphine  straightened  herself  up  as 
if  about  to  reply.  "  Yes,  a  good-for-nothing !  " 
reiterated  the  old  lady.  "  And  to  think  of  what 
he  might  accomplish  if "  —  She  finished  her 
sentence  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"If  he  only  wished  to,"  said  Seraphine,  look 
ing  up  with  a  smile.  "  Shall  I  go  on  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  will  not  impose  on  your 
good-nature,  for  I  wish  you  to  make  me  another 
visit  —  many  —  before  you  go." 

She  went  to  the  window  after  Seraphine  had 
left  her,  and  watched  her  cross  the  lawn  till  the 
trees  hid  her  from  view.  "  Why  not  ?  "  she 
muttered  to  herself,  going  back  to  her  chair. 
And  taking  out  her  writing  materials  from  the 
desk  beside  her,  she  began  a  reply  to  the  letter 
which  had  so  much  interested  her,  in  which, 
among  others,  was  this  sentence :  — 

"  Write  me,  I  beg  of  you,  the  next  time,  a 
letter  of  gossip.  I  am  in  my  second  childhood, 
and  thinking  is  more  tiresome  than  living. 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  found  here  the  daughter 
of  that  little  runaway,  Madelon  Foy,  —  think 
of  it !  —  and  it  is  possible  she  will  find  for  our 
nephew  that  *  something  in  life  which  he  has 
not  yet  experienced.'" 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  191 

xxvn. 

For  several  days  Gladys  had  put  off  her  visit 
to  Rowan's ;  but  Jack,  having  seen  the  sketch 
of  her  slender  form  in  the  high-backed  chair, 
was  interested  in  its  completion. 

"  I  don't  want  to  drive  you,  Gladys,  but  I  wish 
you  would  finish  it." 

"Yes,  certainly,"  she  said;  and  she  sent  a 
note  to  Rowan  that  evening  making  an  appoint 
ment  for  the  following  day.  Was  she  afraid  to 
go  ?  Without  answering  this  question,  she  said 
to  herself  she  did  not  care.  There  was  nothing 
to  choose,  no  alternative  she  herself  did  not 
create ;  she  had  only  to  forget  and  ignore. 

In  the  early  morning,  after  breakfast,  she  put 
on  her  shade-hat  and  wandered  down  towards 
the  boat-house.  There  was  yet  an  hour  before 
it  was  time  to  go ;  but  this  hour  seemed  now  all 
too  short,  and  she  realized  that  not  choosing  was 
making  up  one's  mind. 

All  the  way  across  the  lawn  she  felt  the  pres 
ence  of  that  necessity  which  dogs  the  footsteps 
of  free- agency,  —  it  was  not  that  she  might,  but 
must  choose.  Oh,  if  we  could  only  sleep,  stop 
time,  flinch  the  laws  of  growth,  and  lock  the 
wheels  of  action  !  But  love  and  life,  the  neces 
sities  of  the  heart  and  the  necessities  of  action 


192  TEE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

mock  at  neutrality,  and  wring  a  decision  from  us 
every  day. 

She  had  passed  the  boat-house  mechanically, 
and  her  hand  was  on  the  gate  leading  to  the 
pines.  In  the  summer-house  beyond  she  saw 
Schonberg.  He  was  that  child!  she  was  sure 
of  it.  What  a  glimpse  of  power  he  had  shown 
her.  What !  a  child  despise  fate,  and  not  she  ? 
She  had  read  stories  quite  as  startling  before,  — 
just  as  she  had  looked  a  thousand  times  at  the 
night  sky  without  once  seeing  the  flaming  suns 
which  inhabit  it ;  just  as  she  had  looked  a  thou 
sand  times  into  her  own  heart  without  feeling 
that  sense  of  power  which  rose  to  her  brain  like 
the  perfume  of  the  flower  of  which  Schonberg 
had  spoken.  What  forces  there  were  under  the 
filigree  lace  and  satin  skin  of  life!  The  stars 
obeyed  them  —  but  she  was  free !  She  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  meadow,  where  the 
freshness  of  morning  still  lingered.  Love? 
Well,  yes,  she  said  defiantly,  half  closing  her 
eyes  ;  was  she  responsible  for  it  ?  There  was  a 
kind  of  pleasure  in  recognizing  it,  in  order  to 
strangle  it,  in  indulging  this  dream,  in  order 
to  overwhelm  it  with  its  own  folly  and  humili 
ation. 

Approaching  the  point,  she  heard  the  sound 
of  Schonberg's  voice ;  he  was  reading  aloud. 
She  advanced  softly  over  the  pine  needles,  un- 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  193 

perceived.  His  back  was  towards  her,  but  his 
voice  could  be  heard  distinctly ;  and,  leaning 
against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  she  listened  :  — 

"  Why,  if  the  soul  can  fling  the  dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  air  of  heaven  ride, 
Were 't  not  a  shame,  were  't  not  a  shame  for  him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide  ?" 

He  paused,  looking  off  on  the  river.  She 
started  at  his  movement,  and  a  dry  twig  snapped 
under  her  foot. 

"So  you  were  listening,"  said  he,  turning 
with  surprise  to  see  Gladys  standing  hesitatingly 
where  Mabel  had  accosted  him.  Her  face  was 
fresh  and  fair  as  the  river  sparkling  before 
them,  but  her  eye  was  anxious,  and  her  step 
restless. 

"  I  am  trespassing,"  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Schonberg ;  "  what  I  own 
here  is  not  what  you  have  come  to  enjoy.  That 
is  only  to  sleep  in,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture 
towards  the  house.  "  This  is  where  I  live." 

He  made  room  for  her  beside  him,  as  if  to  say 
she  was  welcome,  and  she  took  the  offered  seat 
without  a  word,  like  a  fascinated  bird.  A  thin 
veil  of  vapor  lay  on  the  river,  through  which  the 
trees  appeared  dimly,  like  the  walls  and  towers 
of  a  city  extending  along  the  farther  shore. 
Gladys  felt  the  necessity  of  saying  something, 
but  could  find  nothing.  She  was  thinking  of 


194  THE  WIND   OF  DES1  INT. 

what  he  had  dared  say  to  her,  and  at  this  thought 
the  seeds  of  revolt  stirred  in  her  heart.  And 
yet,  looking  from  the  river  to  his  rugged  face, 
though  it  wore  the  serenity  of  a  child,  Gladys, 
so  in  the  habit  of  bending  others  to  her  will  in 
her  indirect  and  subtle  manner,  felt  that  he 
could  break  her  like  a  twig  and  wind  her  like  a 
reed  about  his  finger. 

"  You  will  miss  this  spot  when  you  go,"  she 
said.  "  You  will  have  nothing  to  do." 

Schonberg  smiled.  "  You  think  I  do  nothing 
because  1  sit  here  alone.  There  is  a  hive  of 
workers  over  there,"  he  said  with  a  look  towards 
the  spires  of  Ashurst ;  "  and  of  all  they  accom 
plish  nothing  remains  but  the  good  or  evil  they 
do  to  each  other.  Read  the  great  philosophers 
in  your  library ;  those  of  them  who  do  not  get 
lost  on  the  way  all  meet  again  at  one  fork  in  the 
road,  whose  sign-post  you  and  I,  who  stay  at 
home,  can  read  as  well  as  they  —  good  and  evil." 

"  Good  ?  "  said  Gladys,  as  if  she  herself  were 
hesitating  before  that  sign-post.  "  What  is  the 
good?" 

"It  is  very  lucky  you  are  not  obliged  to  wait 
for  me  to  tell  you !  Do  you  remember  the  reply 
of  the  sage  when  asked,  '  What  is  beauty  ? ' 
'  Question  of  a  blind  man.'  " 

"  You  laugh  at  the  philosophers,"  said  Gladys, 
sustaining  his  gaze  resolutely  ;  "  I  supposed  you 
were  one." 

I 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  195 

"  Oh,"  he  replied  laughing,  "  I  have  an  argu 
ment  which  will  pin  every  one  of  my  beliefs  to 
the  wall  like  a  butterfly,  and  when  I  give  them 
an  airing  they  consume  each  other  like  the  kine 
of  Pharaoh.  I  do  not  like  inconsistency  any  more 
than  you  do,  but  there  are  two  kinds :  that  of 
the  fanatic  who  sees  but  one  aspect  of  truth,  and 
that  of  the  neutral  who  sees  many.  Fortunately 
we  forget  our  thoughts  more  easily  than  our  ac 
tions  ;  if  we  could  read  the  register  of  the  mind, 
no  man  would  face  judgment.  And  yet,  after 
all,  who  needs  his  neighbor  to  tell  him  what  is 
right  ?  Our  only  use  is  to  furnish  each  other 
the  opportunity  for  a  good  action.  Hurry,  — 
hurry,"  he  said,  looking  at  her.  "  If  the  object 
of  life  is  to  do  good,  life  is  too  short ;  but  if 
knowledge,  it  is  longer  than  necessary." 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  said  Gladys. 
"  I  am  a  coward." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of,  —  of  death  ?  "  he 
asked  kindly. 

"  Every  one  is  at  heart,"  said  Gladys,  seizing 
upon  his  misinterpretation  of  her  reply  to  escape 
her  own  thoughts.  "Did  you  ever  think  that 
somewhere,  perhaps  uncut  in  the  mountain,  but 
somewhere,  is  a  stone  which  will  stand  over  your 
grave,  and  want  to  find  it,  to  go  and  look  at  it  ?  " 
She  held  out  her  white,  blue-veined  hand.  "  See, 
how  warm  it  is !  Some  day  it  will  be  cold,  — 
worse." 


196  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Schonberg  took  the  hand  for  a  moment  in  his, 
then  let  it  fall. 

"  Do  you  imagine  that  a  pulse  which  refuses 
to  beat,  a  lung  which  cannot  breathe,  a  clot  of 
blood  caught  in  a  vein,  is  death  ?  It  is  not  so 
simple  as  that.  I  will  find  it  for  you  in  the  be 
ginning  of  life,  at  the  flood-tide  of  happiness ;  in 
the  very  lovers  of  whom  we  were  speaking  the 
other  day.  The  tide  rises  fast  for  them,  reaches 
its  height,  pauses,  —  life  is  then  over.  They  re 
fuse  to  believe  it, — the  heart  is  not  yet  full. 
Full  ?  Its  capacity  is  infinite,  but  the  reservoirs 
fail.  I  say  life  is  over ;  for  happiness  that  is 
stationary,  that  repeats  itself,  is  happiness  no 
more.  Having  had  the  most,  one  is  not  content 
with  the  less,  and  death  is  in  the  balance  of  the 
beam.  If  I  were  a  painter,  like  your  cousin,  I 
would  paint  the  bird  whose  throat  bursts  with 
song,  the  butterfly  fluttering  in  the  mud,  in  place 
of  a  skull,  a  bit  of  bone,  which  the  moralist  puts 
at  your  elbow." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  such  a  pessimist," 
said  Gladys,  trying  to  smile. 

"  I,  a  pessimist  ?  "  he  replied  good-naturedly. 
"  Why  call  names  ?  If  you  only  knew !  I  am 
like  other  people  ;  when  I  was  young  I  treasured 
my  griefs,  now  I  guard  my  pleasures." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  smoothing  out  the 
wrinkles  of  her  dress  over  her  knee,  then  rose 
with  a  start.  The  village  bell  was  striking. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  197 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  So  soon  ?  This  is  not  the  visit  you  promised 
me." 

"  Did  I  promise  ?     I  have  an  engagement." 

"  Oh  !  circumstances !  "  said  he,  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  "  Come,  let  us  drive  and  not  be  driven. 
Will  you  give  us  to-morrow?  We  will  take 
the  boat  with  Seraphine  and  Elize ;  there  is  an 
island  below,  where  we  will  fasten  and  let  the 
river  go  by  with  all  our  troubles." 

"Really?"  said  Gladys. 

"  Absolutely.     Do  you  accept  ?  " 

She  put  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  With  all 
my  heart." 

"  Good.  Go  to  your  engagement.  I  will  con 
sult  my  larder." 

"  Leavo  that  to  me !  "  she  cried.  "  To-mor 
row,  at  what  time  ?  Nine?  " 

"  At  nine." 

"  I  shall  not  fail.     Till  to-morrow,  then." 

"  Till  to-morrow." 


XXVIII. 

Gladys  hastened  home.  She  had  to  change 
her  dress,  and  she  wished  to  take  Mabel  with 
her.  Her  heart  was  lighter,  but,  as  she  ap 
proached  Rowan's,  a  shadow  as  of  something  yet 


198  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

below  the  horizon  seemed  to  fall  over  her  path 
again. 

Rowan  appeared  to  have  wholly  forgotten 
their  last  conversation  ;  which  annoyed  Gladys, 
who  was  only  making  believe  that  she  had  for 
gotten.  She  was  noticeably  reserved  and  digni 
fied,  yet  charming  withal,  as  ever ;  for  Gladys' 
manners  were  not  mannerisms,  and,  like  her 
dresses,  were  invariably  worn  with  grace  and 
naturalness.  Even  pride  and  anger,  so  repre 
hensible  in  themselves,  were  becoming  to  her, 
much  to  her  disgust  sometimes  when  she  really 
wished  to  be  ugly,  and,  as  Aunt  Isabel  told 
her,  only  succeeded  in  rendering  herself  be 
witching.  To  all  outward  appearance  she  was 
entirely  at  ease,  but  in  fact  was  struggling  hard 
to  despise  certain  things  in  order  not  to  despise 
herself. 

From  time  to  time  Rowan  looked  up  from 
the  canvas  before  him  to  the  slender  figure  in 
the  black  carved  chair.  Between  the  lace  and 
the  brown  hair,  flushed  with  red,  was  a  neck 
soft  as  the  swan's,  and  between  the  close  sleeve 
and  long  glove  an  arm  white  as  snow.  But  it 
was  not  of  these  he  thought,  nor  her  blue  eyes 
he  saw. 

"  I  fancy  talking  interferes  with  your  work." 

"  Not  iu  the  least,"  he  replied,  relapsing  into 
silence. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  199 

"  What  have  you  there  to  read  ?  "  she  asked, 
glancing  at  the  book-shelf. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  I  shall  not  keep  you  long 
now." 

"  Let  me  see  that  little  red  book,  please.  It 
looks  tempting ;  red  covers  always  are." 

He  took  the  book  from  the  shelf,  and  handed 
it  to  her. 

"  Oh  dear,  poetry ! "  said  Gladys,  turning 
over  the  leaves. 

"  You  used  to  be  fond  of  poetry,  cousin," 
said  Rowan,  after  a  pause. 

But  she  did  not  hear  him.  Reading  here  and 
there  fitfully,  her  eye  had  caught  the  words  :  — 

"Love  is  not  made  of  tears,  nor  yet  of  smiles ; 
Of  quivering  lips,  or  of  enticing  wiles. 
Love  is  not  tempted  ;  he  himself  beguiles." 

"  Read  me  something,"  said  Rowan.  She 
turned  the  leaf  hurriedly. 

"  Love  is  not  made  of  kisses  or  of  sighs ; 
Of  clinging  hands,  or  of  the  sorceries 
And  subtle  witchcraft  of  alluring  eyes. 

"  If  we  know  aught  of  Love,  how  shall  we  dare 
To  say  that  this  is  Love,  when  well  aware 
That  these  are  common  things,  and  Love  is  rare  ? 

"  Love  is  the  union  into  one  sweet  whole  "  — 

"  Well,  are  you  not  going  to  read  ?  "  he  asked, 
looking  up. 


200  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

She  closed  the  book  quickly.  "  Not  now," 
she  replied  with  a  sigh,  half  rising  as  if  to  go. 

"Wait  just  a  moment,  please.  I  have  al 
most  finished." 

She  sank  back  into  the  chair  with  the  book 
in  her  hand.  She  had  forgotten  her  portrait. 
The  last  few  minutes  were  longer  to  her  than 
the  whole  hour.  Mabel,  having  exhausted  Nes 
tor,  came  in  and  laid  her  head  in  Gladys'  lap, 
taking  the  hand  abandoned  to  her.  Mabel  loved 
its  rings,  especially  the  diamond  one,  playing 
hide-and-seek  with  the  fires  flashing  from  its 
facets.  Occasionally  Gladys'  eyes  strayed  from 
the  curly  head  to  Rowan,  absorbed  in  his  work. 
It  seemed  to  her  suddenly  that  he  looked  tired 
and  careworn.  She  had  not  noticed  it  before. 
No,  Schonberg  had  unnerved  her  with  his  ter 
rible  words  ;  or  perhaps  it  was  the  light.  Gladys 
had  a  tender  vein  in  her  composition.  If  Jack 
came  back  from  the  office  with  a  headache, 
though  she  had  on  a  ball  dress,  or  were  tying  the 
ribbons  of  her  opera  cloak,  she  would  plunge 
into  her  dressing-room,  to  come  out  in  a  white 
apron,  with  flannels  and  bottles  and  the  busi 
ness-like  air  of  a  trained  nurse  softened  by  com 
passion.  Mabel  knew  how  to  work  this  vein 
when  overtaken  by  childish  ailments,  and  reck 
oned  a  sick  day  in  bed  among  the  favors  to  be 
desired  of  fortune. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  201 

When  Rowan  was  not  looking,  Gladys  stole 
thoughtful  glances  at  him.  No,  it  was  not  the 
light,  certainly. 

"  There,"  said  he,  throwing  down  his  brush, 
"  I  shall  let  you  go  now." 

She  rose  with  a  start,  and,  putting  on  her 
hat,  they  went  out  together. 

"  You  don't  look  well,  Rowan,"  she  said,  as 
he  held  the  gate  open  for  her.  Her  voice  was 
so  kind  —  love  is  always  kinder  than  pity  — 
that  he  noticed  the  change  in  it. 

"  Thank  you,  Gladys,  but  I  am,  —  perfectly 
so." 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  willing  to  come  with 
us,"  she  said,  lingering  at  the  open  gate.  "  This 
is  no  way  for  you  to  live."  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  acquired  the  right  to  — 
yes,  to  love.  For 

' '  Love  is  not  made  of  kisses  or  of  sighs  ;  .  .  . 
Love  is  the  union  into  one  sweet  whole." 

No,  not  even  that.  He  did  not  care  for  her,  yet 
a  strange  happiness  swelled  up  to  her  throat,  the 
mysterious  happiness  of  losing  one's  life  to  find 
it  again.  She  did  not  stop  to  deliberate,  to  cal 
culate  her  strength,  —  "  great  designs  spring 
from  the  heart,"  —  she  simply  gave  herself  up 
to  the  sudden  rush  of  feeling,  the  sweetest  and 
the  strongest  that  fills  the  heart  of  woman  who 
finds  such  pearls  in  the  marvelous  deeps  of  pain. 


202  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 


"  I  wish  you  would  come,  Rowan.  I  could  make 
it  so  pleasant  for  you  and  —  Miss  Fleming." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  she  blushed 
like  a  child  caught  in  a  fault.  "  My  dear  Gla 
dys,"  he  exclaimed,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
his  with  a  quick  movement,  "  I  wronged  you  the 
other  day ;  will  you  forget  it?  " 

She  smiled  faintly,  releasing  her  hands,  while 
the  lines  repeated  themselves  in  her  ears :  — 

"  Love  is  not  made  of  kisses  or  of  sighs  ; 
Of  clinging  hands  "  — 

"You  make  much  ado  about  nothing.  "Will 
you  come?  It  would  give  Aunt  Isabel  so  much 
pleasure,"  she  went  on  hurriedly.  Rowan  hardly 
recognized  Gladys.  Was  it  Gladys,  after  all? 
"You  shall  have  your  old  room."  It  washers 
now ;  but  she  saw  herself  already  moving  out  of 
it.  "  Miss  Fleming  was  there  the  other  day,  — 
calling  on  Aunt  Isabel,  I  mean.  You  know  her 
grandmother  and  Aunt  Isabel  were  friends." 

"  No,  I  did  n't  know  it,"  he  said,  walking  on 
beside  her  down  the  lane. 

"  Why  should  n't  you  come,  just  for  a  week, 
till  Miss  Fleming  goes  ?  " 

"  Is  Miss  Fleming  going  away  ?  "  he  asked 
abruptly,  forgetting  Gladys'  entreaty. 

"  I  think  so ;  that  is,  probably ;  "  and  Gladys' 
throat  swelled  again.  "  Don't  come  any  far. 
ther ;  I  must  hurry  back  to  lunch." 


THE  WIND    OF  DESTINY.  203 

"  But,  Gladys,"  said  he ;  "  wait  a  moment.  I 
want  to  thank  you."  She  saw  he  was  not  speak 
ing  of  what  he  was  thinking.  "I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  I  "  — 

"  Certainly."  She  smiled  again.  "  Come  in 
this  evening  after  dinner,  and  we  will  talk  about 
it."  She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying. 
"  I  must  hurry  now.  Good-by." 

"  Bring  Nestor,  too !  "  shouted  Mabel,  running 
sidewise  with  her  head  over  her  shoulder.  She 
chatted  fast  all  the  way  back.  Gladys  said 
Yes  and  No  to  her  questions,  without  hearing 
one  of  them,  and  when  she  reached  her  chamber 
threw  herself  upon  her  bed  in  a  passion  of  tears. 
She  had  not  foreseen  the  burden  would  press  so 
heavily  or  so  soon. 

She  did  not  appear  at  lunch;  and,  after  it 
was  over,  Jack,  who  was  going  away  that  after 
noon  on  a  yachting  excursion,  came  up  to  her 
room  to  make  his  final  preparations  and  say 
good-by. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  persuade  Gladys 
to  go  with  him,  even  for  a  short  run  down  the 
bay.  But  she  was  always  full  of  her  own  af 
fairs,  and  he  never  doubted  that  she  had  a  bet 
ter  time  than  he. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  some  people  down  and 
fill  up  the  house  ?  "  he  said,  packing  his  valise. 
"  I  know  some  who  are  waiting  for  an  invita 
tion." 


204  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  be  away  ?  "  she 
replied. 

"  Oh,  about  a  fortnight ;  but  that  has  n't  got 
anything  to  do  with  it." 

"No,"  said  Gladys. 

"  I  shall  start  to-morrow,  if  there  's  any  wind, 
and  drop  you  a  line  wherever  I  can."  Jack's 
letters  were  literally  "  a  line  "  inclosed  between 
"  Dear  Gladys  "  and  "  Yours,  Jack  ;  "  but  they 
were  longer  than  hers,  for  she  never  wrote  at  all. 

"  Where  shall  I  write  you,  if  I  should  wish 
to?" 

He  looked  up,  surprised.  "  Better  send  to 
the  office.  There 's  nothing  wrong,  is  there, 
Gladys?" 

"  No,  there 's  nothing  wrong  ;  I  had  the  feel- 
ing"- 

"  Feeling,  about  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied,  rising.  "  One 
can't  always  answer  such  a  question." 

"I  wish  you  would  go,"  said  Jack.  "We 
could  take  Mabel  with  us." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  went  to  the  wardrobe 
for  her  afternoon  dress. 

"  Do  you  know  where  my  sea-coat  is  ?  "  asked 
Jack. 

"  I  gave  it  to  James  to  brush ;  shall  I  ring 
for  it?" 

"  No,  never  mind ;  I  want  to  see  James  my 
self.  I  '11  be  back  in  half  a  minute." 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  205 

Gladys  put  on  her  dressing-sack  and  sat  down 
before  the  mirror.  Sho  did  not  ring  for  Ellen, 
who  was  waiting  as  usual  to  dress  her  mistress' 
hair :  why  not,  it  were  difficult  to  tell ;  one  can 
not  always  answer  such  questions.  She  took 
out  the  comb  and  pins,  one  by  one,  till  her  hair 
fell  over  her  shoulders  in  brown  waves  tinged 
with  a  red  like  that  of  the  ripe  grain  in  the 
first  rays  of  a  morning  sun.  She  was  a  longer 
time  in  putting  it  back  again  than  Ellen  re 
quired  ;  still  Jack  did  not  come.  She  had 
changed  her  dress  when  he  returned,  and  was 
deliberating  before  her  open  jewel-case. 

"  Halloa,"  he  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
and  taking  out  a  small  cross  of  opals  set  with 
diamonds  ;  "  I  don't  remember  that." 

"  Rowan  gave  it  to  me  years  ago,"  said  Gla 
dys,  looking  at  him  in  the  glass. 

"  Oh,  did  he  ?  "  said  Jack,  not  observing  her. 
"  Why  don't  you  wear  it  ?  It 's  pretty.  There, 
I  believe  I  'm  ready.  Where  's  Mabel  ?  " 

Gladys  rang  the  bell. 

"  Bring  Mabel  up  here,"  said  Jack  to  the 
nurse.  He  went  to  the  window  and  lit  a  cigar 
with  the  satisfied  air  of  a  man  who  is  ready  and 
has  a  little  time  to  spare. 

Presently  Mab  came  in  like  a  summer  storm 
of  sunshine  and  rain. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  a  good  girl  and  take 


206  TUE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

care  of  Mamsey  ?  "  said  Jack,  lifting  her  up  in 
his  arms  and  placing  her  on  the  window  casing. 

"  What  will  you  bring  me  home  ?  "  asked 
Mabel,  quick  at  seeing  chances. 

He  kissed  her  with  a  laugh,  and  they  all 
went  down  the  stairs  together.  At  the  steps, 
when  the  valise  had  been  placed  in  the  car 
riage,  Jack  turned  to  Gladys. 

"  I  am  going  to  drive  you  down,"  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  him  she  had  something  to  say ; 
there  was  a  feeling  of  constraint  new  to  their 
intercourse.  But  she  did  not  speak,  and  grad 
ually  his  thought  wandered  ;  he  noticed  the  over 
head  check  was  too  tight ;  an  ounce  more  weight 
in  the  fore  shoe  would  n't  be  a  bad  idea ;  and 
that  led  to  the  ballast  of  the  yacht,  —  the  sail 
ing-master  wished  a  part  of  it  taken  out  and 
replaced  by  a  lead  keel ;  Jack  himself  thought 
there  was  too  much  of  it,  and  too  far  aft  —  she 
showed  her  forefoot. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  said  Gladys. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  reballasting  the  Vixen. 
Look  out ! "  he  exclaimed  as  she  struck  the 
horse  savagely  with  the  whip  ;  "  he  has  n't  been 
out  for  a  day  or  two."  What  had  got  into 
Gladys? 

Instead  of  checking  his  valise  and  going  out 
on  the  platform  to  wait  for  the  train,  as  he  usu 
ally  did,  he  remained  with  her  in  the  carriage 
when  they  reached  the  station. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  207 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Gladys  ?  "  he  asked,  as 
the  whistle  sounded  round  the  curve. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  asking  me  that  question  ?  '* 

"  I  have  n't  asked  you  before.  If  there  were 
anything,  of  course  you  would  tell  me,"  he  add 
ed,  laying  his  hand  on  her  knee. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Gladys. 

He  was  about  to  kiss  her,  as  usual.  A  kiss 
of  that  sort  had  never  embarrassed  him  before. 
It  was  like  shaking  hands.  But  she  made  no 
motion,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  did  not 
wish  him  to.  But  after  he  had  taken  his  seat 
in  the  train,  and  while  lighting  a  fresh  cigar, 
Gladys'  averted  face  and  eyes  appeared  through 
the  smoke,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
have  taken  another  kiss  than  the  ceremonious 
one  he  had  contemplated.  "  Women  are  so  in 
fernally  contradictory,"  he  thought,  looking  out 
of  the  car  window. 


XXIX. 

Unaccustomed  as  Gladys  was  to  strong  feel 
ing,  she  found  it  impossible  to  analyze  it  when 
it  came.  She  swung  from  resolve  to  resolve 
till  her  mind  refused  to  act  out  of  sheer  exhaus 
tion,  and  a  sort  of  apathy  took  possession  of  her. 
Riding  home  she  drew  her  shawl  close  about  her 


208  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINT. 

shoulders ;  she  was  cold,  though  a  warm  wind 
blew  from  the  south  and  the  sun  was  shining. 
She  stopped  at  Aunt  Isabel's  door,  telling  her 
laconically  she  had  persuaded  Rowan  to  spend  a 
week  at  The  Towers ;  then  went  to  her  own  cham 
ber,  where  she  had  dinner  served,  scarcely  tast 
ing  it.  She  was  still  cold,  yet  the  air  seemed 
oppressive,  and  she  sat  with  her  shawl  about  her 
and  the  window  wide  open.  Had  she  not  ex 
pected  Rowan  she  would  have  gone  to  bed.  The 
light  faded  out  of  the  west  as  she  waited,  alone, 
listening.  But  he  did  not  come ;  the  shadows 
deepened,  and  when  Ellen  came  to  say  that  Aunt 
Isabel  was  ready  for  her  game  of  chess,  she  could 
not  see  her  mistress  in  the  darkness. 

Next  to  solitaire,  chess  was  Aunt  Isabel's 
favorite  pastime.  She  had  taught  Gladys,  who 
detested  the  game,  but  who  by  dint  of  forced 
practice  and  the  desire  to  beat  her  aunt  had 
finally  become  a  good  player. 

She  roused  herself  with  an  effort,  and,  light 
ing  the  candles,  gave  a  hurried  glance  in  the 
glass.  Gladys  was  not  vain.  Indeed,  it  was 
as  if  some  one  else  speaking  in  the  darkness  had 
said  :  You  are  beautiful  to-night.  Her  face  was 
flushed,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars.  Then 
she  went  to  her  aunt's  chamber. 

The  air  seemed  close  and  stifling  as  she  took 
down  the  chessmen  from  the  shelf  and  began 
arranging  them  on  the  board. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  209 

"  You  have  your  king  on  the  wrong  square," 
said  Aunt  Isabel ;  and  after  the  game  was  begun, 
"  What  put  it  into  your  head  to  ask  Rowan 
here?" 

"  I  think  it  would  suggest  itself  to  any  one." 

"  But  he  refused  once." 

"  I  found  a  new  argument.  It  is  your  move, 
Aunt  Isabel." 

"  What  argument  ?  " 

"  I  held  out  to  him  the  inducement  that  he 
might  see  here  some  one  whom  he  loves." 

Leaning  back  in  her  chair,  the  old  lady  ex 
amined  Gladys'  face  sharply.  "  What,  so  soon !  " 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Gladys. 

"That  is  strange.  I  had  the  same  thought 
myself." 

Then  the  game  went  on  in  silence. 

"  You  play  badly  to-night,  Gladys,"  said  her 
aunt  when  it  was  finished. 

"  I  have  a  headache  —  it  is  hot  here  ; "  and 
Gladys  opened  the  window.  A  rush  of  warm 
wind  swept  in,  causing  the  lights  to  flare.  "  I 
believe  it  is  going  to  rain." 

"  There  will  be  a  storm,"  said  Aunt  Isabel. 
"  If  you  have  a  headache,  Gladys,  you  had  bet 
ter  go  to  bed." 

"  You  would  like  to  roll  me  in  blankets,  —  no, 
thank  you.  Besides,  I  told  you  Rowan  was  com 
ing  this  evening." 


210  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  You  told  me  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  If  you  will  see  him,  and  persuade  him," 
Gladys  said  suddenly,  "  since  it  is  your  idea,  I 
will  go.  I  am  tired." 

"  Very  well.  Shall  I  tell  him  you  had  a  head 
ache?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Gladys,  putting  the 
chessmen  back  in  their  box  and  ringing  the  bell. 
"  Ellen,  when  Mr.  Ferguson  comes,  you  will 
show  him  up  here.  Good-night,  Aunt  Isabel." 

"  Good-night.  Bring  me  my  cap,  Ellen,"  said 
the  latter. 

Gladys  went  to  her  room.  The  traveling- 
clock  between  the  candles  on  her  dressing-table 
was  striking  eight ;  she  could  not  go  to  bed  at 
that  hour.  There  was  a  feeling  of  tightness 
about  her  head ;  she  took  off  her  dress  and  boots 
which  bound  her  like  shackles,  and  put  on  a 
loose  morning  gown  and  slippers.  Something 
was  taking  form  in  her  thoughts,  —  one  could 
see  it  from  the  restless  automatism  of  her  move 
ments.  Suddenly  she  went  to  her  desk  and  sat 
down  to  write  :  — 

"  DEAR  JACK,  —  I  am  coming  to  town  to-mor 
row.  I  shall  send  this  by  the  night  mail,  hoping 
it  will  reach  you  in  time  for  you  to  meet  me  — 
the  morning  train  ;  if  not,  I  shall  go  to  Meyer's 
to  lunch  and  wait  for  you.  I  might  as  well  tell 
you  now,  —  do  you  want  to  take  me  with  you  ? 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTIN7.  211 

You  will  wonder  what  has  become  of  my  aversion 
to  the  water.  You  see  it  was  not  safe  to  urge 
me,  since  I  change  my  mind  at  the  last  mo 
ment.  GLADYS." 

She  rang  the  bell,  folding  her  note  hurriedly, 
as  if  there  were  danger  of  another  change  such 
as  she  had  mentioned  in  her  letter. 

"  Tell  James,  Ellen,  to  take  this  letter  to  the 
office ;  and,  if  the  mail  is  closed,  to  go  himself 
to  the  station.  And  —  wait ;  I  am  going  with 
Mr.  Temple  for  a  week  or  more  on  the  yacht. 
When  you  come  back,  pack  the  two  small  trunks 
—  my  flannel  dresses  —  both  —  the  blue  and  the 
white  —  and  some  warm  things.  Here  are  the 
keys.  I  will  see  Mr.  Ferguson  myself  when  he 
comes  ;  and  Ellen,  Mr.  Ferguson  will  make  my 
aunt  a  visit.  He  is  to  have  this  room,  and 
you  will  move  everything  of  mine  to  the  east 
chamber,  —  next  Mabel's.  Take  the  letter  first, 
and  then  send  Margaret  to  me." 

After  Ellen  was  gone,  Gladys  went  to  her 
drawer  and  took  from  her  jewel-case  the  cross 
of  opals. 

"  Margaret,"  she  said  to  the  nurse,  who  came 
in  answer  to  her  summons,  "  if  Mr.  Temple  sees 
best,  I  shall  take  Mabel  with  me  for  a  week  on 
the  yacht ;  at  all  events,  you  will  be  ready  to 
morrow  in  case  I  telegraph  for  you ;  if  not,  I 
shall  be  back  .  .  .  soon.  And,  Margaret,  you  will 
not  let  Mabel  go  to  the  river  alone." 


212  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Then  Gladys  went  down  to  the  library  with 
the  cross  in  her  hand. 

It  was  nearly  nine ;  still  Rowan  did  not  come. 
She  took  from  the  table  a  book  in  one  of  those 
dainty  bindings  which  had  led  to  its  selection 
for  this  place  of  honor.  Indeed,  Gladys  had 
never  examined  its  contents  before.  A  border 
of  red  tracing  ran  up  the  illuminated  pages. 
She  read  the  title  on  the  page  to  which  she 
opened,  —  The  Dying  Soldier's  Message,  —  but 
the  words  meant  nothing  to  her.  What  she  saw 
was  the  cross  which  burned  within  her  tightly 
closed  fingers.  She  read  at  first  without  under 
standing  the  lines,  till  gradually,  like  some  far 
away  lonely  music,  their  pathos  stole  in  upon  her 
attention  unawares. 

"  God  knows  whether  my  mother  is  yet  alive, 

I  assure  you  I  would  not  afflict  her. 

If  she  lives,  tell  her  I  am  too  lazy  to  write, 

That  my  regiment  is  on  the  march,  that  she  must  not  expect 

me. 

And  my  little  neighbor,  —  you  remember  her,  — 
It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  seen  each  other ; 
She  does  not  think  of  me.      However  that  may  be, 
Tell  her  the  truth  without  fear  of  afflicting  her. 
If  she  weeps,  her  tears  will  not  last  long." 

She  felt  her  eyes  growing  hot,  and  closing  the 
book  quickly  went  to  the  terrace  door.  The 
night  was  dark,  and  on  the  black  surface  of  the 
glass  her  own  image  confronted  her  warningly. 


TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  213 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  began  to  strike  — 
nine  —  he  would  not  come.  A  large  inoth,  out 
side,  climbed  up  the  smooth  pane,  its  eyes  shin 
ing  like  rubies  in  the  night.  She  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace.  The 
strong  south  wind  seemed  to  hold  it  and  beat  her 
back ;  then,  rushing  past  her,  extinguished  the 
light  and  left  her  in  darkness. 

She  crossed  the  terrace  slowly.  She  was  not 
conscious  of  having  made  any  decision,  yet  went 
down  the  steps  unhesitatingly,  avoiding  the  grav 
eled  walk.  What  was  she  going  to  do  ?  She 
did  not  know,  though  she  knew  perfectly  well 
what  she  was  doing.  The  momentous  peril,  the 
uselessness,  the  folly  of  it,  were  as  real  as  the 
darkness  enveloping  her  ;  but  these  did  not  stay 
her,  nor  the  rustling  trees  huddled  together  in 
black  groups,  nor  a  cold  drop  which  fell  from  the 
closing  clouds  on  her  bare  head.  "  To-morrow  I 
shall  be  gone,"  she  kept  repeating  to  herself, 
holding  fast  to  her  resolve,  as  if  every  step  on 
the  soft  grass  threatened  it.  The  galop  of  a 
horse  outside  the  gate  caused  her  to  stop ;  it 
was  James  coming  back  from  the  station.  What 
was  she  doing  there  ?  The  light  above  the  en 
trance  fell  on  her  face  and  dress,  and  she  drew 
back  into  the  shadows  which  a  moment  before 
had  terrified  her  with  a  sudden  fear  and  sense  of 
humiliation.  Where  was  she  going?  What  was 


214  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

this  passionate  desire  her  feet  obeyed  ?  To  open 
her  heart  to  eyes  that  could  only  pity ;  so  to  love 
love  that  she  must  barter  everything  for  a  look 
of  recognition,  a  sigh  of  compassion?  She 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  head ;  the  thought  that 
she  was  mad  flashed  through  her  mind.  No,  it 
was  not  her  head ;  the  pain  was  in  her  heart.  It 
was  not  love  he  should  see,  but  the  pain ;  love 
he  would  not  understand,  but  pain  he  could  share. 
James,  standing  up  in  the  stirrups,  put  out  the 
light ;  it  was  late,  and  going  to  rain.  Gladys 
listened  to  the  sounds  of  the  horse's  feet  as  they 
died  away.  Her  thoughts  grew  confused,  and 
slid  out  of  her  grasp.  She  was  walking,  —  fall 
ing,  —  and  her  hand  tightened  on  the  cross. 
How  hard  her  heart  beat  against  it  in  her  palm ! 
"  When  one  loves,  one  loves,"  it  seemed  to  say. 

Straight  on,  past  the  solitary  light  of  Schon- 
berg's  window,  down  the  lane  to  Rowan's  gate. 
There  she  stopped,  irresolute.  The  house  was 
dark.  The  wind  had  ceased,  and  a  cold,  fine 
rain,  which  made  her  tremble,  fell  steadily  on  the 
trees,  dropping  from  leaf  to  leaf. 

How  came  she  there  ?  A  moment  ago  she  was 
in  her  own  room.  She  raised  her  hand  to  her 
eyes  as  if  to  shield  them  from  a  light.  How  dark 
it  was !  she  could  see  nothing ;  how  had  she 
found  her  way  ?  Her  forehead  was  burning,  and 
wet !  When  had  it  begun  to  rain  ?  Oh,  yes,  she 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  215 

remembered  now;  they  were  going  down  the 
river ;  there  was  an  island  there.  No,  it  was  her 
picture,  and  Mabel,  Mabel  was  with  her.  She 
must  find  Mabel ;  the  child  would  be  wet  through. 
No,  it  was  night ;  she  was  only  dreaming.  She 
must  have  fallen  asleep  with  that  Russian  book 
in  her  hand,  —  and  involuntarily  her  fingers 
closed  on  the  cross,  giving  a  new  direction  to 
her  wandering  thought,  —  yes,  the  cross,  she  was 
going  to  give  it  to  Rowan,  —  that  was  what  the 
book  had  said :  "  Tell  him  the  truth  without 
fear  of  afflicting  him ;  if  he  weeps,  his  tears  will 
not  last  long." 

She  went  up  the  path  as  if  it  had  been  noon 
day,  opened  the  door,  and  entered  the  studio. 
Where  should  she  put  it  ?  Not  for  worlds  would 
she  have  him  dream  what  she  was  doing.  How 
cunning  she  was !  She  would  put  it  in  the  great 
chair  where  she  had  sat ;  he  would  think  she  had 
dropped  it  there.  She  groped  her  way  to  the 
chair,  smiling  in  the  dark,  when,  almost  there, 
she  heard  a  sound  that  chilled  her  heart  with  ter 
ror.  It  was  Nestor  in  the  lane.  She  sprang  to 
the  door,  and  hid  herself  in  the  lilac  bushes 
within  the  gate.  Between  the  shivers  of  the 
trees,  at  every  lull  in  the  rain,  she  listened.  The 
pitiless  drops  fell  on  her  face,  on  her  neck,  on 
her  hair.  Hark  !  he  was  coining ;  she  must  fly. 
As  she  turned,  softly, —oh,  so  softly! — her 


216  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

dress  caught  in  the  shrubbery,  and  brought  down 
a  shower  of  rain  and  dried  leaves. 

"  Be  quiet,  Nestor,"  said  Rowan's  voice. 

She  tore  the  traitor  lace  from  the  branch :  it 
was  too  late ;  he  was  there,  close  beside  her. 
The  ground  swayed  under  her  feet ;  her  dress, 
heavy  with  moisture,  dragged  her  down.  She 
made  a  desperate  effort  not  to  fall,  with  that  last 
strength  which  flares  up  like  a  flame  before  it 
expires,  and  straightening  herself  as  the  white 
willow  when  the  wind  has  passed,  reeled  — 

"Why,  Gladys!"  she  heard  him  say;  then 
the  rain  and  the  cold,  the  shame  and  the  fear, 
all  disappeared  in  unconsciousness. 

He  caught  her  as  she  fell.  "  Gladys,"  he 
whispered  ;  then  louder,  "  Gladys !  "  A  little 
pool  had  gathered  in  the  hollow  of  the  stones; 
he  dashed  the  water  in  her  face.  She  opened 
her  eyes,  but  they  saw  nothing ;  a  long,  deep 
sigh,  like  the  last  breath  of  the  dying,  and  the 
force  was  spent. 

Frightened,  he  raised  the  form  sliding  through 
his  arms  ;  it  was  cold  and  wet.  The  dress  clung 
to  his  limbs,  and  the  chill  struck  to  his  heart. 
He  laid  her  down  upon  the  grass,  taking  off  his 
coat  and  wrapping  it  about  her ;  then  lifting  her 
again  began  to  run.  At  the  corner  of  the  lane 
he  was  forced  to  lean  for  a  moment  against  the 
lamp-post  exhausted ;  she  was  slipping  from  his 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  217 

grasp.  The  hair  had  fallen,  but  a  rose  she  had 
fastened  there  that  afternoon  clung  to  it  still. 
He  lifted  the  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  began 
to  run  again.  The  light  at  the  gate  of  The  Tow 
ers  was  extinguished,  and  the  road  so  black  that 
he  stopped  at  times  to  feel  the  border  of  grass 
with  his  feet.  In  the  house,  not  a  light.  The 
library  window  was  open,  and  entering,  he  stood 
for  a  moment,  irresolute,  listening.  Within  all 
was  silent ;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  beating 
of  his  own  heart  next  the  burden  in  his  arms, 
whence  came  a  dead  perfume  of  the  crushed  rose 
and  wet  hair.  He  groped  his  way  to  the  lounge, 
and,  laying  her  there,  went  into  the  hall.  There 
were  voices  in  the  rear  of  the  house ;  he  knew 
every  door,  and  advanced  softly  towards  the 
passage  leading  to  the  kitchen.  Ellen,  hearing 
footsteps,  met  him  at  the  threshold. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Temple?"  he  asked,  before 
she  could  utter  her  surprise. 

"  Mr.  Temple  left  this  afternoon,  sir,"  she  re 
plied. 

"  And  are  you  Mrs.  Temple's  maid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  Come  in,  and  shut 
the  door." 

"  Ellen,  sir."  She  had  recognized  him,  and, 
in  his  face,  that  look  impossible  to  conceal,  an 
nouncing  disaster. 


218  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  Do  you  love  your  mistress,  Ellen  ?  Hush  !  " 
he  interrupted.  "  Never  mind ;  go  up  to  her 
room  and  wait.  Above  all,  be  quiet.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  till  she  had 
disappeared  with  the  candle  in  her  hand,  then 
went  back  to  the  library. 

Dumb  with  curiosity  and  apprehension,  Ellen 
glanced  about  the  room  as  she  entered  it.  There 
was  no  one  there.  It  was  ten  o'clock.  She  had 
prepared  Gladys'  bed  for  the  night.  It  was  just 
as  she  had  left  it  a  half  hour  before,  the  clothes 
turned  back  and  the  night-dress  with  its  lace 
ruffle  folded  on  the  pillow.  Presently  she  heard 
Rowan  coming  slowly  up  the  stairs.  She  had 
a  premonition  that  he  was  bringing  her  mis 
tress  with  him,  and  was  not  surprised,  though 
speechless,  when  she  saw  the  white  mass,  with 
its  stained  and  discolored  dress,  laid  under  the 
satin  hangings  of  its  bed. 

She  approached  with  the  candle,  but  he  took 
it  roughly  from  her  hand,  placing  it  so  that  the 
bed  was  in  the  shadow,  and,  grasping  her  arm, 
drew  her  away  to  the  door. 

"  Listen,"  said  he.  "  You  are  not  afraid  ? 
Do  just  as  I  tell  you.  Unfasten  her  dress, 
boots ;  take  them  all  away,  —  everything  to  show 
that  she  has  been  out,  the  wet,  the  mud.  Do 
you  understand  ?  " 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  219 

Ellen  made  a  sign  of  assent.  "  And  of  my 
being  here  to-night,  not  a  word,  remember  !  Can 
you  keep  a  secret,  for  her  sake  ?  When  you 
are  ready,  send  for  the  doctor  instantly,  and 
wake  her  aunt.  You  have  brandy  ?  —  but  first 
of  all,  the  dress."  As  he  spoke  he  looked  at 
her  keenly,  and  she  seemed  to  him  worthy  of 
confidence  ;  so  much  so  that  he  added,  "  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honor  that  in  doing  as  I  bid 
you  are  serving  your  mistress  best  and  doing 
right.  Hurry,  now,"  and  he  let  go  her  arm. 

She  went  to  the  bed,  and  began  to  loosen 
deftly  the  disordered  dress. 

"  If  you  do  as  I  bid  you,  there  will  be  only 
one  question  asked.  Where  did  you  first  see 
her?" 

"  Here,"  said  Ellen. 

"  Of  course,  in  her  bed.     Can  you  lie  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Ellen,  simply. 

"  You  may,  —  must,  if  necessary.  Have  no 
fear." 

He  went  down  the  stairs,  through  the  library 
door,  hurrying  as  if  something  still  depended  on 
his  haste. 

Nestor,  on  guard  at  the  step  before  the  door, 
waited  his  return.  Rowan  threw  himself  in  a 
chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  dog 
came  and  laid  its  head  on  his  knee,  while  facing 
him  was  the  picture  of  Gladys,  her  blue  eyes 


220  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

full  of  smiles.  Was  it  true,  did  she  really  love 
him  ?  —  Gladys,  whose  moods  were  like  shadows 
of  passing  clouds,  and  fancies  like  the  flight  of 
swallows  ever  on  the  wing. 

Sitting  beside  him  on  its  haimches,  the  dog 
gave  a  low,  impatient  whine.  Something  glit 
tered  in  its  mouth,  —  a  cross  of  opals,  set  with 
diamonds. 


XXX. 

The  pulse  was  slow,  the  breathing  regular 
and  deep. 

"  Take  the  candle  away,"  said  the  doctor,  as 
Gladys,  muttering  low,  indistinguishable  words, 
turned  restlessly  from  the  light. 

The  physician  had  been  summoned  by  tele 
graph  from  the  city.  Twenty-four  hours  had 
elapsed,  and  he  must  return  that  night ;  an  im 
portant  consultation  the  next  morning  allowed 
him  but  a  half  hour  to  stay.  Aunt  Isabel 
watched  him  intently  as  he  stood  by  the  bedside, 
his  eye  quiet  but  keen,  his  mouth  resolute  but 
mobile,  —  one  would  say  a  man  capable  of  great 
mistakes  and  great  successes.  The  minutes 
passed  in  silence.  There  were  only  thirty,  and 
Aunt  Isabel  grew  impatient.  lie  took  up  a 
bottle  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  examining  the 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  221 

label  in  an  absent  way,  while  she  smoothed  the 
pillow  and  ruffled  night-dress,  disordered  by 
Gladys'  unquiet  slumber. 

"  There  has  been  no  —  no  strong  emotional 
disturbance  ?  "  he  said,  taking  the  clinical  ther 
mometer  gently  from  the  arm. 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Isabel,  promptly. 

"Of  any  kind?"  She  shook  her  head.  "Nor 
anxiety?  "he  continued,  replacing  the  bulb  in 
its  case. 

"  She  played  chess  with  me  that  very  evening." 

"  As  well  as  usual  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Any  unusual  exposure  to  cold  or  rain  ?  " 

"  None.     That  is  impossible." 

Ellen,  standing  in  the  shadow  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  made  a  movement,  which  she  instantly 
repressed. 

A  footstep  was  heard  on  the  stair ;  then  the 
door  opened,  and  the  village  physician  entered. 
Aunt  Isabel  introduced  the  colleagues,  and  much 
against  her  will  left  them  together.  But,  hur 
rying  away  to  catch  the  train,  the  stranger  was 
intercepted. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  tremor  in 
her  voice. 

He  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I  promise  nothing." 

At  the  terrace  door  another  woman,  bold  with 
love  and  fear,  confronted  him. 


222  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

"  She  knows  nothing,  sir.  She  was  brought 
home  wet,  and  cold  as  ice."  He  seemed  to  un 
derstand,  in  spite  of  the  ambiguity  of  Ellen's 
pronouns,  continuing  his  walk  across  the  terrace 
to  the  carriage  waiting  at  the  steps,  its  side-lights 
burning.  "I  am  the  only  one  who  knows.  I 
hopo  I  've  done  right  in  telling  you,  sir." 

"  I  knew  it  before,  my  good  girl,  —  that,  or 
something  else,"  he  replied,  getting  in;  and, 
looking  at  his  watch,  "  Drive  on !  "  he  said  to 
the  coachman. 

"What  were  you  doing  on  the  terrace, 
Ellen  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Isabel,  as  the  former  came 
up  the  stairway. 

"  He  left  his  little  black  case  on  the  table," 
said  Ellen,  quickly  ;  and,  pleased  with  her  facil 
ity  of  speech,  she  reentered  her  mistress'  cham 
ber,  taking  her  place  at  the  bedside  with  the 
lighter  heart  which  rewards  a  clear  conscience. 

But  Gladys  neither  saw  nor  heard  her;  nor 
the  nurse  the  doctor  sent  later  from  the  city  to 
replace  her,  —  one  whose  mouth  would  not 
twitch,  nor  eyes  moisten,  as  Ellen's  did,  and 
who  would  not  start  at  every  incoherent  word  or 
unquiet  motion.  There  was  no  need  that  Aunt 
Isabel's  voice  should  sink  to  a  whisper  as  she 
approached  the  bed ;  nor  that  Jack,  summoned 
hastily  from  the  roar  of  the  city  and  the  flap 
ping  sails  of  the  Vixen,  should  hush  even  Ma- 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  223 

bel's  laughter  on  the  terrace.  For  Gladys  did 
not  hear  these  strange  footsteps  which  invaded 
her  chamber,  and  was  indifferent  to  all  solici 
tude.  Only  one  avenue  from  without  was  open, 
light ;  the  feeblest  ray,  straying  in  through  the 
closed  shutters,  bit  like  an  asp  and  seared  like 
flame. 

Imagine  pictures  on  an  arras  wall,  succeeding 
each  other  as  by  magic,  distinct,  single,  but  mo 
mentary.  Such  are  the  acts,  the  states  of  mind, 
revealed  by  consciousness.  Of  these  ceaselessly 
changing  pictures,  now  and  then  one  is  caught 
on  the  sensitive  plate  of  the  memory,  while 
the  snail  Thought,  with  its  mole  eyes,  looks 
on  wisely  as  they  pass,  the  unending  frieze  of 
Life  :  Sorrow  mute,  and  Joy  singing  ;  Desire 
with  hungry  eyes,  and  Satiety  tired  but  sleep 
less  ;  Hate  aflame,  and  Love  aglow.  But  the 
myriad  moving  threads  which  make  up  these 
pictures  are  unseen  ;  the  causes  which  deter 
mine  the  act,  the  state,  in  all  their  subtle 
play,  escape  consciousness ;  it  sees  the  single 
resultant  of  infinite  forces,  the  simple  sum  of 
innumerable  elements.  Thus  we  live,  bat-like, 
in  gloom,  and  our  impuissance  is  our  power. 
For,  magnify  this  vision  of  consciousness,  show 
us  the  tumult  of  the  looms  behind  the  arras,  and 
straightway  Thought,  the  snail,  is  paralyzed  — - 
Delirium ! 


224  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

So  for  Gladys.  The  outer  world  solicited  her 
in  vain,  for  within  what  visions !  The  universe 
had  melted  into  atoms,  and  every  atom  was  a 
world.  With  what  a  dizzy  velocity  they  swept 
by !  How  their  paths  crossed  and  twisted !  It 
was  no  longer  the  pictures  on  the  arras  wall  of 
consciousness,  but  the  flux  and  play  of  the  mil 
lion  threads,  the  whir  of  the  looms  ;  music  un 
ending,  but  every  note  a  thousand  vibrations. 
Where  were  the  sky  curtains,  shot  with  stars? 
Rent  now  like  veils,  behind  which  opened  inter 
minable  vistas.  Time,  itself,  shrinking  and  ex 
panding,  stretching  moments  into  aeons,  and 
crushing  millenniums  into  seconds. 

"  Unconscious,"  the  doctor  had  said ;  a  strange 
word,  full  of  strange  comfort. 

At  length,  one  day  the  fear  and  dazzlemeut 
disappeared  from  Gladys'  eyes,  and  the  eyes 
themselves  closed  heavily. 

"  Stupor,"  he  said. 

"  And  afterwards  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Isabel,  try 
ing  hard  to  speak  naturally. 

"  One  thing  or  the  other,"  was  the  reply. 
"  The  scale  is  balanced ;  on  the  side  it  dips  it 
will  stay." 

Stupor !  Say,  rather,  peace.  The  rocking  stars 
fixed  again,  and  the  sea  in  slumber ;  the  din  a 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  225 

murmur,  like  the  far  tramp  of  receding  armies, 
and  the  light  an  afterglow,  as  of  invisible  suns. 

Then  began  the  slow  resurrection  of  the  past. 
She  was  no  more  an  actor,  but  a  witness,  before 
whom  its  scenes  defiled  in  endless  procession.  A 
thousand  events  and  impressions,  unconsciously 
registered,  emerged  from  oblivion ;  as  the  dew, 
falling  unseen  and  imperceptible,  under  the 
cover  of  night,  shines  in  the  morning  sun. 

She  saw  a  little  girl  chasing  a  butterfly  in  a 
field  of  clover.  Now  at  rest  on  a  clover-top, 
now  on  the  wing,  a  golden  fleck  in  the  sunshine, 
the  insect  led  the  child  in  zigzag  lines  across  the 
field ;  down  the  slope  to  the  tiny  stream  among 
the  cardinal  flowers ;  over  the  yielding  moss,  in 
which  the  foot  sank ;  and  up  through  the  sweet- 
fern  bushes  in  the  pasture  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  where  it  fluttered  upward,  and  vanished. 
Breathless  with  the  chase  the  child  stopped ;  its 
little  feet  were  wet,  its  apron  torn,  its  hat  lost, 
the  butterfly  gone.  Its  lip  quivered  and  its 
eyes  began  to  swim,  for  where  was  home,  and 
what  would  home  say?  Gladys  smiled.  She 
felt  no  alarm.  She  remembered  it  all,  and  knew 
the  nurse  was  already  hurrying  after  the  little 
truant.  It  amused  her.  It  was  so  strange  to 
stand  aside,  to  let  some  one  else  live  for  you, 
while  you  looked  on.  But  what  a  foolish  little 


226  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

girl !  with  nothing  to  show  for  her  lost  hat  and 
torn  apron,  not  even  the  scarlet  flowers. 

She  was  in  her  chamber,  when  she  had  one 
all  her  own.  A  young  girl  was  standing  before 
the  glass  fastening  a  white  rose  in  her  hair.  It 
did  not  seem  to  satisfy  her,  for  she  put  it 
aside  and  selected  another,  holding  it  to  her 
throat ;  finally  she  chose  a  red  one,  and  hid  it 
quickly  in  her  bosom,  which  nothing  yet  had 
troubled.  Gladys  saw  the  eyes  shining  out  from 
the  mirror,  —  herself.  She  knew  every  thought 
in  their  deeps,  and  how  fast  the  heart  was  beat 
ing  under  the  white  muslin.  She  would  have  lin 
gered  in  that  room  ;  crept  into  its  bed  canopied 
with  dreams.  Ah,  if  at  the  first  breath  of  au 
tumn  the  butterfly  could  fold  its  wings  and  steal 
back  again  into  the  chrysalis  !  From  below  came 
up  the  sound  of  music,  the  hum  of  voices,  and 
the  breath  of  flowers ;  the  young  girl  extinguished 
the  light,  went  out,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  Do  butterflies  sleep  in  chrysalides  when 
flowers  are  abloom  and  the  birds  are  come  from 
the  south  again  ? 

Hark  !  some  one  called  her.  Far  off,  like  the 
outlet  of  a  cave,  a  spot  of  light  shone  in  the  dark, 
and  within  its  circle  a  strange  face  looked  down 
upon  her.  Some  one  was  holding  her  hand ;  she 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  227 

drew  it  away,  and  at  the  same  time  a  mist 
spread  over  the  face,  the  light  contracted,  then 
disappeared. 

It  was  only  a  dream ;  she  was  awake  again. 
There  was  that  young  girl  once  more,  —  no,  a 
woman  now.  How  beautiful  she  was !  The 
thought  brought  a  hot  blush  to  Gladys'  cheek, 
and  at  the  same  time  she  laughed  under  her 
breath  —  she  was  not  speaking  of  herself  !  But 
her  vision  was  no  longer  clear  as  before  ;  she 
could  not  read  the  woman's  heart  as  she  had 
the  young  girl's,  nor  follow  the  thoughts  cross 
ing  the  deeps  of  those  eyes.  She  had  missed 
something.  The  thread  of  life  she  had  been 
retracing  was  broken  and  lost.  At  times,  too, 
the  dream  returned,  with  voices  like  the  droning 
of  bees.  How  full  of  lights  they  were,  those 
eyes  —  like  May  woods  —  lights  and  evanescent 
shadows.  Certainly  they  were  happy  eyes,  yet 
she  searched  them  wistfully ;  somewhere  in  the 
May  woods  was  a  dove  with  a  broken  wing; 
till  at  last,  far  down  below  the  swimming  sur 
face,  in  the  heart  whence  all  their  lights  and 
shadows  came,  she  found  —  a  wound  !  That  was 
not  strange  ;  there  were  cases  on  record,  —  bul 
lets  carried  a  lifetime,  unsuspected.  But  hush ! 
not  a  whisper  —  why  tell  her  ?  See,  how  happy 
she  is !  the  world  courts  her,  one  can  hardly  fol 
low  her  now  in  the  crowd,  among  the  lights  and 


228  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

flowers  —  was  it  these  which  hid  the  flutter  of 
the  dove's  wing  ?  How  should  one  reach  her  to 
get  one  little  word  to  her  ear,  so  pressed  about, 
feted,  and  crowned  —  and  in  her  hand,  another 
smaller  one.  Why  tell  her,  then?  Every  one 
knows  the  heart  has  graves ;  the  foot  can  scarce 
tread  there  for  the  tombs ;  hopes,  dreams,  all 
that  is  born  there  comes  back  thither  to  sleep 
as  flowers  to  the  sod  whence  they  sprung.  No, 
not  a  whisper !  for  who  sees  the  frost  or  knows 
when  it  fell  ?  Hush  !  she  must  steal  out  of  this 
heart,  out  of  its  farthest  corner  —  softly !  Oh, 
if  she  should  waken  it,  disturb  these  graves 
where  its  children  lie  !  How  had  she  dared  enter, 
and  what  way  had  she  come  ;  here,  this  way, 
through  the  May  woods.  Hark  again  !  a  cry, 
—  the  cry  of  the  wounded  dove.  It  was  she, 
herself,  Gladys,  who  was  waking ;  the  path  was 
wet,  the  leaves  dripped  with  rain,  she  was  cold, 
and  it  was  night  —  Hurry,  oh,  hurry !  he  was 
coming  —  Rowan ! 

Her  hand  strayed  feebly  over  the  coverlid ; 
her  dress  was  warm  and  dry.  She  opened  her 
eyes  ;  it  was  dark,  but  not  night.  That  sound 
she  heard  was  not  rain,  but  the  ticking  of  her 
clock  on  the  dressing-table.  She  looked  up,  and 
saw  a  man  standing  beside  her  with  grave,  watch 
ful  eyes.  He  stooped  over  her,  and  she  heard  a 
kind  voice  say  :  — 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  229 

"  There,  my  child,  be  quiet  and  rest." 
And  in  spite  of  her  curiosity,  while  struggling 
to  waken  memory,  and  still  battling  with  her 
drowsiness,  she  could  but  obey  this  strange  voice, 
this  strange  hand  which  patted  her  shoulder  so 
gently  as  the  heavy  lids  closed  against  her  will, 
and  for  the  first  time  for  days  Gladys  slept. 


XXXI. 

When  Gladys  parted  from  Rowan  in  the  lane 
on  the  morning  of  her  last  sitting,  a  single  sen 
tence  of  hers  was  ringing  in  his  ears,  —  "  Till 
Miss  Fleming  goes."  What  did  Gladys  mean? 
He  wished  to  ask  her ;  but  she  had  left  so  hastily 
that  before  he  recovered  from  his  surprise  her 
white  dress  was  already  a  far-away  spot  of  light 
in  the  shadows  of  the  elms.  He  reentered  the 
house,  and,  taking  up  his  brush  and  palette,  be 
gan  to  work  upon  the  drapery  of  Gladys'  dress. 
It  was  what  he  had  intended  to  do  after  she  was 
gone ;  but  every  motion  was  a  mechanical  one ; 
his  thought  was  elsewhere.  All  that  had  filled 
these  days  of  rest  and  leisure  disappeared  from 
view  before  the  supreme  end  which  this  single 
sentence  had  disclosed,  and  towards  which  every 
energy  of  his  nature  was  now  directed.  He  de 
termined  to  see  Seraphine  that  very  afternoon, 


230  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

and  when  dinner  was  over  went  out  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  Flemings'.  As  he  passed  Schon- 
berg's  he  heard  the  voice  of  Elize  on  the  porch, 
where  arrangements  were  being  made  for  the 
morrow's  excursion.  A  sudden  timidity  over 
came  his  resolution,  and  he  passed  by  without 
turning  his  head.  If  he  could  only  see  Sera- 
phine  alone !  All  the  afternoon  he  wandered 
through  the  fields  and  along  the  river  behind 
the  house  in  the  vague  hope  of  meeting  her,  but 
without  seeing  any  one  except  Schonberg,  sit 
ting  alone  in  the  tea-house  and  muttering  to 
himself,  with  now  and  then  a  rising  inflection  as 
if  asking  a  question,  after  which  he  drew  his 
gown  about  his  legs  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

It  was  supper-time  when  he  returned  home. 
At  all  events  he  should  see  Gladys  that  evening, 
he  thought. 

Immediately  after  supper  he  took  his  hat 
again  and  went  out.  It  was  yet  too  early. 
Gladys  would  not  have  finished  her  dinner ;  but 
to  be  on  the  way  made  the  time  seem  shorter, 
even  though  that  way  were  the  longer  one  by 
the  river.  On  reaching  the  tea-house  he  sat 
down  to  wait  until  Gladys  should  be  ready  to 
receive  him.  What  she  had  said  that  morning 
had  been  a  relief  to  him.  If  once,  in  the  sur 
prise  of  the  discovery  that  he  had  touched  the 
heart  of  his  cousin,  his  pride  had  been  secretly 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  231 

gratified,  the  thought  was  now  a  disquieting  one. 
He  had  never  loved  her ;  all  her  ways  irritated 
him,  and  on  the  news  of  her  marriage  he  experi 
enced  the  relief  of  one  whose  judgment  receives 
a  long-wished-for  confirmation.  Since  his  return, 
however,  this  judgment  had  become  disturbed. 
What  he  wished  to  believe  —  that  she  loved  to 
tease,  or,  at  most,  that  a  woman  could  never  feel 
towards  one  she  has  once  loved  as  towards 
others  —  was  sometimes  difficult.  But  now  Gla 
dys  herself  had  cleared  away  his  perplexities : 
still,  he  resolved  not  to  accept  her  invitation. 

Before  him,  the  river,  turning  sharply  west 
ward,  ran  straight  as  a  road  through  the  dense 
pine  woods,  whose  dark  lines  framed  in  the  dis 
tant  horizon.  Overhead  the  sunset  clouds  sailed 
in  the  south  wind,  and  below  on  the  river  their 
softened  images  floated  down  like  scarlet  barges 
between  the  black  walls  of  pine.  Slowly  the 
waters  began  to  grow  dark  and  the  clouds  to 
lose  their  color,  till  at  last  only  that  far  hori 
zon  lingered  fresh  as  a  rose  set  in  the  sombre 
shadows  of  the  forest.  In  the  pine  woods  it 
was  already  night.  Lights  twinkled  in  the 
homesteads  on  the  plain  across  the  river,  where 
the  cows  were  housed,  the  sheep  gathered  in, 
and  the  labor  of  the  day  finished.  One  by  one 
the  indistinguishable  sounds  of  night,  which 
render  its  silence  only  more  profound,  came  up 


232  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

like  a  fog  from  the  lowlands,  and  above  in  the 
pines  the  murmur  of  the  wind  rose  and  fell  with 
the  low  crooning  of  a  summer  song. 

As  the  village  bell  struck,  Howan  took  the 
path  leading  out  upon  the  main  road  between 
Schonberg's  and  the  Flemings'.  At  the  gate  in 
the  wall  between  the  two  houses  he  stopped 
again.  From  behind  the  curtain  of  Seraphine's 
room  a  light  shone  on  the  chestnut  tree  outside 
the  window.  She  was  there,  —  so  near  to  him. 
He  pictured  to  himself  the  interior  of  that  room, 
its  ornaments  and  furniture ;  and  his  heart  be 
gan  to  beat  violently.  How  long  he  remained 
there  he  could  not  have  told  ;  but  the  last  trace 
of  day  had  disappeared,  and  Night,  the  enchant 
ress,  was  filling  the  world  with  mystery.  Out 
of  the  willows,  like  a  bird,  the  breeze  sallied, 
like  a  bird's  wing  swept  over  the  grass,  hovered 
an  instant  above  the  thicket,  and  vanished 
again.  Beyond,  the  river  glittered  with  stars ; 
not  a  sound  to  betray  its  flow.  Near  the  shore 
were  black  patches  of  leaves  where  the  water 
lilies  gazed  out  wonderingly  upon  the  earth 
flowers,  upon  the  sombre  trees  stretching  in 
interminable  lines  along  the  banks,  between 
whose  walls,  as  in  a  chasm,  flowed  that  other 
river,  on  whose  bosom  floated  also  innumerable 
blossoms,  and  over  whose  surface,  here  and 
there,  a  stray  cloud  spread  like  a  night  bird  its 
black  wings. 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  233 

0  Nature,  whom  we  invest  with  our  own  di 
vinity,  from  whose  dumb  lips  issues  our  own 
song,  what  were  thy  mysterious  night,  but  for 
the  soundless  mystery  of  love  ?  What  were  the 
breath  of  thy  night  wind,  setting  free  a  sea  of 
perfumes,  but  for  love  breathing  on  the  human 
heart  ?  What  thy  lilies  or  thy  sky,  but  for  the 
soul's  hopes  and  longings  struggling  upward  un 
satisfied  till  they  also  sco  the  heaven-fields  and 
the  unquenchable  stars? 

He  was  no  longer  thinking  of  anything :  he 
simply  gave  himself  up  to  the  feeling  that  she 
was  there,  within  sound  of  his  voice,  almost 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  when  suddenly,  where 
the  path  curved  behind  the  willows,  the  leaves 
rustled,  and  a  white  form  appeared.  Without  his 
assent  the  word  "  Seraphine  "  escaped  from  his 
lips. 

The  young  girl  started  and  stood  still. 

"  Seraphine,"  he  repeated,  opening  the  gate. 

She  did  not  speak  nor  retreat.  He  hurried 
towards  her  and  took  her  hand.  On  her  face 
was  an  expression  of  fear  and  unspeakable  sur. 
prise.  And  yet  before  that  first  embrace  of  his 
eyes  hers  did  not  fall  nor  falter ;  she  knew  what 
was  before  her  ;  she  had  no  fear,  and  nothing 
could  surprise  her.  No  one  had  told  her  he 
would  be  there.  Yet  she  knew,  and  all  that  was 
to  take  place.  He  drew  her  gently  with  him, 


234  TEE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

still  holding  her  hand  in  his,  as  though  if  he 
loosed  it  she  would  turn  and  fly.  Yet  she  went 
without  fear  or  trouble.  A  delicious  peace  filled 
her  heart  —  the  world.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
all  had  been  as  it  was  a  thousand  years,  as  a 
thousand  years  it  would  be ;  and  yet  she  knew, 
as  the  gate  closed  behind  her,  that  a  door  was 
being  shut  upon  a  past  into  which  she  should 
not  enter  again.  He  led  her  to  the  seat  where 
she  had  passed  so  many  hours  with  Schonberg 
and  Elize.  She  did  not  see  the  dark  shadows  of 
the  pines  above  it,  nor  the  gathering  clouds  be 
tween  which,  here  and  there  only,  a  star  gleamed 
momentarily. 

"Seraphine,"  he  whispered  again,  drawing 
her  towards  him.  She  tried  to  rise,  to  speak, 
but  could  not  —  and  hid  her  face. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  stood  alone  at  the  gate, 
beyond  which  she  had  just  disappeared  among 
the  willows.  An  indescribable  joy  filled  his 
heart.  It  was  all  true  ?  No  longer  a  dream,  — 
a  reality  ?  He  remembered  the  first  time  they 
had  met,  in  the  woodland  road  ;  he  had  fright 
ened  her  then,  but  what  a  steadfast  light  burned 
in  her  startled  eyes !  She  would  walk  where 
she  had  chosen,  without  asking  others  what  she 
should  do,  —  and  she  had  chosen  !  He  recalled 
every  moment  that  had  just  passed  ;  so  few,  and 
never  to  be  repeated,  yet  redeeming  this  life  and 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  235 

pledging  another.  He  had  forgotten  to  ask  if 
she  were  going  away.  But  what  matter  ?  How 
could  she  go  away !  Then  he  began  to  dream, 
and  at  those  dreams  let  him  smile  who  has  not 
longed  for  day  to  end,  for  the  hour  when  the 
last  good-night  is  said,  the  door  shut,  the  light 
extinguished,  that  free,  alone,  he  may  enter  the 
realm  of  sleep  through  the  gate  of  love's  first 
dreams. 

The  bell  in  the  village  steeple  commenced  to 
strike  again.  Gladys  would  be  waiting  for  him. 
How  he  had  misjudged  dear  Gladys  !  At  that 
moment  there  was  no  room  for  misconceptions 
in  his  heart,  no  place  for  wrong  in  the  world. 
Eight,  nine  —  what,  ten  ?  It  was  too  late  ;  and 
when  had  it  begun  to  rain  ?  He  would  see 
Gladys  in  the  morning  and  explain  it  all  to  her. 

But  Gladys,  trembling  at  his  door,  was  already 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  excuses. 

Schonberg,  writing  at  his  table,  was  roused 
that  evening  by  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  piazza. 
He  rose  with  his  quill  in  his  hand,  when  the  door 
opened ;  in  the  entry  stood  Seraphine. 

"  It  is  you !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture  of 
surprise. 

"  Myself." 

Her  eyes  shone  as  she  offered  him  her  cheek. 
He  touched  it  with  his  lips ;  it  was  not  a  kiss, 


236  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

for  cheeks  so  fresh  and  fair  are  not  made  for 
threescore  years. 

"  Why,  my  child,  you  are  wet.     It  rains  ?  " 

"It  is  nothing.  Wait."  And  unfastening 
the  handkerchief  about  her  neck  she  dried  her 
moist  face  and  hair.  "  Are  you  alone  ?  "  The 
energy  of  her  question  caused  him  to  look  about 
the  room  as  if  he  expected  to  discover  some  one. 
"  Ah,  you  were  writing,"  she  said,  going  to  the 
table  and  sitting  down  in  his  chair.  "  I  disturb 
you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  replied,  observing  her  with 
astonishment. 

"  Come,  let  us  have  a  little  fire ;  my  feet  are 
wet.  Yes,  it  rains  ; "  and  throwing  her  hand 
kerchief  on  the  table  she  stooped  to  the  hearth 
and  lit  the  fire.  The  dry  wood  blazed  up  quickly, 
casting  a  red  light  upon  her  face  and  bosom. 

"  Your  feet  are  wet/'  said  Schonberg,  stand 
ing  over  her. 

"  I  had  only  my  slippers,"  she  replied,  hold 
ing  one  foot  to  the  flame. 

"  What  folly,  what  folly !  "  he  repeated,  en 
deavoring  to  assume  an  air  of  severity. 

She  turned  her  head  and  smiled.  He  had 
never  seen  her  so  exhilarated  ;  her  every  attitude 
betrayed  a  secret  happiness,  which  escaped,  too, 
in  every  motion  and  published  itself  in  the  clear 
but  tremulous  tones  of  her  voice.  A  pair  of 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  237 

slippers  hung  beside  the  fireplace  on  a  nail,  — 
an  important  element  in  Schonberg's  domestic 
economy,  —  and  in  an  instant  she  had  removed 
her  own  and  plunged  her  feet  in  their  cavern 
ous  depths.  "  You  wish  to  scold  me ;  I  am 
waiting,"  she  said,  drawing  out  from  their  huge 
receptacles  one  small  foot  after  another,  and 
holding  them  alternately  to  the  blaze. 

Schonberg  walked  once  or  twice  across  the 
room,  hesitating  each  time  he  approached  her, 
and  finally  sat  down  again,  making  a  pretense  of 
arranging  his  papers. 

"  Well,  you  have  nothing  to  scold  me  for  ?  " 
and  suddenly,  from  behind,  he  felt  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  her  cheek  beside  his. 

"  No  —  seriously  —  Seraphine  "  —  he  stam 
mered,  endeavoring  to  loosen  the  arms,  which 
caused  him  a  feeling  both  of  pleasure  and  em 
barrassment. 

"  And  am  I  not  serious  ? "  she  whispered. 
"  Tell  me,  what  shall  I  do  to  be  serious  ?  Is  it 
forbidden  to  kiss  you  ?  Answer  quickly  ...  it 
will  be  too  late  " 

"  Be  reasonable,  Seraphine.  You  have  some 
thing  to  tell  me  "  — 

"  Yes,  listen,"  and  she  drew  her  arms  closer. 
"  Shut  your  eyes  —  fast  —  1  am  happy,  happy, 
happy." 

He  turned  in  his  chair,  but  only  to  see  her  at 


238  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

the  door,  a  finger  lifted  to  her  lips  as  if  forbid 
ding  him  to  follow. 

It  might  have  been  a  dream,  but  for  the  hand 
kerchief  on  his  table  and  the  embers  on  his 
hearth. 

XXXII. 

When,  after  leaving  Ellen,  Rowan  found  him 
self  alone  in  the  still  falling  rain,  the  conviction 
that  he  was  doing  right  suddenly  deserted  him. 
Under  the  necessity  of  action  his  mind  had 
worked  with  the  lucidity  and  rapidity  of  instinct ; 
now,  misgivings  and  forebodings  assailed  him. 
He  hurried  home,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
the  lounge  endeavored  to  collect  his  thoughts,  to 
satisfy  his  conscience,  to  quiet  his  fears.  An 
hour  ago  life  had  been  an  inexhaustible  happi 
ness.  What  had  he  done  ?  what  had  happened  ? 
The  unfinished  face  of  Gladys  looked  at  him 
from  the  canvas  reproachfully.  He  had  carried 
her  secretly  to  her  chamber  ;  all  his  desire  had 
been  to  reach  that  room  unobserved.  Why  ? 
The  reason  which  had  prompted  him  was  au  in 
sult  to  her.  Moreover,  he  had  acted  contrary  to 
every  conviction  ;  Iter  last  words  had  been  of 
plans  for  him  and  Seraphine.  Once,  perhaps, 
it  might  have  been  so  ;  but  now,  pride  alone 
would  render  it  impossible !  Everything  was 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  239 

against  such  a  supposition.  Oh,  a  liking,  a 
little  pique  —  a  love  to  tease  ;  but  a  love  to 
bring  her  to  his  door,  at  his  feet,  —  he  was  a  fool 
to  think  of  it.  Yet  he  had  scarcely  begun  to  ex 
perience  the  relief  this  reasoning  afforded  him, 
when  the  certainty  under  which  he  had  acted 
returned.  Something  rose  out  of  those  unfin 
ished  eyes,  as  out  of  a  hungry  heart,  and  took 
possession  of  him.  It  was  true,  —  he  knew  it  was 
true  ;  and  his  thought  went  back  to  the  days 
when  they  had  first  met,  when  they  had  parted, 
when  he  knew  that  for  the  asking  — 

He  got  up  and  began  to  walk  the  room.     He 
experienced  a  feeling  of  revolt  against  this  love 
which  appropriated  his  life,  —  revolt  and  pity. 
"  No,  no,  it  is  impossible,"  he  repeated.     "  She 
was  sick  ;  mad,  mad !  "  and  an  anxiety  for  what 
he  had  done  succeeded.     Deception  was  repug 
nant  to  him.     Why  should  he  assume  so  grave 
a  responsibility  ?     Who  would    comprehend  it 
should  the  truth  become  known  ?    He  had  given 
Gladys  up  to  nameless   suspicion    in   pledging 
Ellen  to  secrecy,  whereas   if  he  had  but  told 
Aunt  Isabel  —  Why  should  he  not  tell  her  ?  and 
he  put  on  his  hat  as  if  to  go  out.     But  it  was 
now  too  late,  and  Aunt  Isabel  would  think  as  he 
did.     She  had  upbraided  him  once  for  his  blind 
ness  ;  he  could  not  count  on  hers  now.     No,  he 
had  done  rightly.     Gladys  must  be  saved.    She, 


240  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

who  had  uncovered  her  heart  to  his  eyes,  what 
would  she  think  of  him  if  he  called  Aunt  Isabel 
to  see  ?  Certainly,  she  was  mad,  —  and  his 
thoughts  retraced  again  the  same  endless  circle. 
After  all,  why  should  he  persist  in  believing 
what  Gladys  would  herself  deny  ?  This  argu 
ment,  so  simple,  reassured  him.  She  herself 
would  explain  how  she  came  there  ;  why  should 
he  attribute  such  folly  to  her  before  she  had  an 
opportunity  to  interpret  her  own  actions  ?  Nestor 
had  frightened  her.  ...  It  was  while  he  was 
thus  thinking  that  the  dog  laid  its  head  on  his 
knee  with  a  low  whine.  Something  metallic 
clicked  in  Nestor's  mouth  ;  it  was  Gladys'  cross. 
He  had  forgotten  its  existence ;  but  what  its 
broken  circle  of  fires  said  to  him  caused  him  to 
cover  his  face  with  his  hands.  It  was  true,  —  it 
was  true ! 

In  one  thought  alone  he  found  an  intense  re 
lief.  He  would  tell  Seraphine  all. 

Worn  out  with  anxiety,  Eowan  had  fallen 
asleep  at  last  on  the  lounge,  but  a  succession  of 
disordered  fancies  had  robbed  slumber  of  rest. 
Now  it  was  Gladys'  pale  face  he  lifted  on  his 
shoulder ;  now  he  struggled  for  breath  on  the 
slippery  sod ;  then  he  saw  that  face  still,  an 
invincible  force  closing  its  blue  eyes  forever,  till, 
changing  mysteriously,  it  disappeared,  and  there 
Was  Seraphine's  in  its  place,  smiling  sadly. 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  241 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  shining  warmly 
after  the  rain.  So  gayly  did  the  birds  sing  in 
the  branches  outside  the  window  they  almost  per 
suaded  him  there  was  nothing  to  fear.  He  looked 
at  his  watch,  —  it  was  eight  o'clock,  —  made 
a  hurried  toilette,  and  hastened  to  The  Towers. 

On  the  way  he  encountered  Schonberg,  in  ex 
cellent  spirits. 

"  You  are  going  to  The  Towers  ?  Tell  your 
cousin  the  day  is  fine,  and  the  river  is  calling 
her." 

Rowan  looked  at  him,  without  understanding 
a  word. 

"  We  are  going  on  the  river,  that  is  all,"  said 
Schonberg. 

"  Mrs.  Temple  will  not  be  able  to  go  to-day. 
She  is  not  well." 

"  Not  well  ?  "  said  Schonberg,  with  surprise. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  see,"  and  Rowan  hurried  on. 

As  he  approached  the  house  all  his  fears  came 
back  again.  The  curtains  of  Gladys'  chamber 
were  drawn,  and  Margaret,  who  carried  his 
message  to  Aunt  Isabel,  spoke  in  a  whisper. 
Waiting  in  the  library,  into  which  the  sun 
struggled  through  the  crevices  of  the  closed 
blinds,  he  remembered  the  day  when  his  mother 
lay  there,  —  there,  where  the  table  stood.  It 
seemed  to  him.  as  if  the  strong  perfume  of  flow- 


242  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

ers  filled  the  room  again,  and  the  voice  he  did 
not  then  understand  was  repeating  the  words, 
"  In  such  an  hour  as  ye  think  not."  Years  of 
sunlight  had  not  driven  that  shadow  out  of  his 
heart. 

Aunt  Isabel  was  not  one  to  wring  her  hands, 
but  her  face,  haggard  with  anxiety  and  wakeful- 
ness,  appalled  him.  It  wore  that  expression  of 
impotence  so  profound  that  it  does  not  ask  for 
help,  but  appeals  only  for  sympathy. 

"  Is  Gladys  very  sick  ?  "  he  asked. 

Aunt  Isabel  was  sitting  in  her  armchair,  a 
little  pot  of  coffee  beside  her,  which  exhaled  a 
delicious  fragrance. 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say?"  he  asked  again, 
for  she  had  made  no  reply. 

"  The  little  he  can." 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  lawn,  spread  with  wet  webs  sparkling 
in  the  sun. 

"  Do  you  mean  there  is  really  danger  ?  " 

"  My  God !  She  played  chess  with  me  here 
at  this  table  last  evening,"  said  the  old  lady, 
looking  at  the  table  vacantly,  without  seeming 
to  hear  his  question.  "  Why  did  you  not  come 
last  night  ?  "  she  asked,  abruptly.  "  She  ex 
pected  you.  A  little  headache ;  who  would  have 
thought  it,  —  who  would  have  thought  it !  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  said  Rowan,  feeling  that 
he  could  do  nothing. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  243 

"  One  must  eat  and  sleep,"  moaned  the  old 
lady  to  herself,  sipping  her  coffee. 

"  Have  you  sent  for  Mr.  Temple  ?  " 

She  made  a  sign  of  assent.  Evidently  she 
suspected  nothing.  Gladys'  secret  was  safe. 

"  Tell  me  what  I  can  do,"  he  repeated. 

"  Nothing.  No  one  can  do  anything  ;  that  is 
the  pity  of  it,  to  sit  and  wait." 

It  was  on  his  lips  to  tell  her  ;  but  what  would 
be  gained  ? 

"  Can   you  take  Mabel  with  you  this  morn- 

ing?'; 

"  Why,  certainly,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  Yes,  amuse  her  ;  tell  her  stories.  I  will  send 
her  to  you  on  the  terrace." 

He  opened  the  door  softly,  and  went  out  on 
tiptoe.  Ellen  was  coming  up  the  stairs.  "  If 
she  wakes,  tell  her  nothing  is  known,"  he  said 
to  her.  Ellen's  significant  eyes  annoyed  him. 
Why  should  he  feel  guilty  ?  It  was  Gladys'  se 
cret,  not  his  ;  and  yet,  walking  down  the  avenue 
with  Mabel's  hand  in  his,  a  persistent  voice  with 
which  he  could  not  reason  reproached  him.  It 
was  not  the  voice  of  conscience,  but  of  Gladys, 
—  the  Gladys  of  long  ago,  —  and  he  could  not 
silence  it.  The  thought  of  Seraphine,  to  whom 
he  was  going,  made  him  almost  angry  with 
Gladys.  Meanwhile,  Mabel's  little  hand  in  his 
said  to  him,  Love  does  not  reason;  it  appro 
priates. 


244  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  Mamma  is  not  well,  Mabel,"  he  said,  with  an 
effort  to  shake  himself  free.  "  How  would  you 
like  to  come  with  me  for  a  row  on  the  river  ?  " 

"  I  would,"  said  Mabel.  "  What  makes 
mamma  sick  ?  "  she  asked,  as  they  went  on. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rowan,  looking  down 
on  her  yellow  hair. 

"  When  we  come  home  she  '11  be  better  prob 
ably,"  she  replied,  with  an  air  of  complete  satis 
faction.  "  Probably  "  was  one  of  Mabel's  latest 
acquisitions,  which  she  took  especial  pleasure  in 
putting  to  use.  "  May  I  swing  on  the  gate  ? 
Mamma  lets  me." 

"  You  may  do  anything  your  mamma  lets 
you." 

She  ran  ahead,  her  hair  floating  out  under  her 
straw  hat,  and,  pushing  back  the  heavy  iron  gate, 
swung  herself  on  the  lower  bar,  laughing  tri 
umphantly.  "  Bang  !  "  she  shouted,  squeezing 
her  eyes  together  as  it  closed  noisily. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,"  said  Rowan,  crossing 
the  street  to  the  Flemings'. 

The  door  was  wide  open,  and,  in  the  chamber 
above,  he  heard  Elize  singing  :  — 

"  The  bee  with  his  comb, 

The  mouse  at  her  dray, 
The  grub  in  its  tomb, 
Wile  winter  away  ; 

But  the  firefly  and  hedge-shrew  and  lob-worm,  I  pray, 
How  fare  they  ?  " 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  245 

He  stood  for  a  moment  undecided,  when  he 
heard  Seraphine's  step  coming  down  the  stairs, 
and  all  the  beauty  and  freshness  of  the  morning 
came  back  again.  The  momentary  hesitation  of 
her  foot  on  the  stair,  the  flush  of  surprise  on  her 
cheek,  he  did  not  see,  but  only  those  limpid  eyes 
which  replied  to  the  happiness  that  filled  his 
heart.  They  told  him  she  had  given  herself 
without  reserve  out  of  her  hands,  but  something 
more  than  the  song  growing  nearer  on  the  floor 
above  made  him  wonder  at  what  he  had  dared 
the  night  before. 

"My  cousin  Gladys  is  very  sick,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  am  going  to  care  for  Mabel  to-day.  I 
have  promised  to  take  her  on  the  river ;  will  you 
come  with  us  ?  Come,"  he  whispered,  as  Elize 
appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"  Wait  for  me  on  the  piazza.  We  are  going 
on  the  river,"  she  said  to  Elize.  "Will  you 
come  ?  " 

Elize  glanced  from  Seraphine  to  Rowan. 
"  How  can  I  ?  I  'm  the  mouse  at  her  dray,  the 
bee  with  his  comb,  to-day.  You  see,  Mr.  Fer 
guson,"  she  said,  with  an  explanatory  gesture, 
"  housekeeping  is  unending  honey-making,  and 
winter  comes  three  times  a  day ;  that  is  the  rea 
son  Seraphine  and  I  take  turns  at  the  comb.  Not 
with  absolute  regularity,  you  know,"  she  added, 
laughing  at  her  own  impromptu,  and  recollecting 


246  TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

that  she  had  intended  to  pass  the  day  on  the 
river  herself ;  "  in  fact,  it 's  a  plan  I  just  thought 
of ;  but  you  approve  of  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"It  is  certainly  a  just  one." 

"  I  did  not  intend  it  to  be  simply  just,  but 
also  generous,"  said  Elize,  significantly.  "  Be 
sides,  Seraphine  and  I  have  completed  our  grub 
state,  you  know.  We  shall  have  our  wings  pres 
ently,  and  then  !  "  —  and  sitting  down  on  the 
doorstep,  Elize  made  another  gesture,  signifying 
possibilities  unspeakable. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Kowan. 

"  Has  n't  Seraphine  told  you  ?  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  genuine  surprise. 

"Told  me  what?" 

"  Do  you  really  mean  —  I  shall  have  to  sing 
you  another  song  from  Browning,  —  about  Kate, 
the  queen ;  do  you  remember  ?  '  But  that  for 
tune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  her ! '  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Dinant  ?  "  she  asked,  enjoying 
his  bewilderment.  "  Dinant  in  Flanders.  Ser 
aphine  and  I  are  going  to  invade  Flanders,  and 
open  the  campaign  at  Dinant." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  Dinant  for,  Miss 
Fleming?"  said  Rowan,  sitting  down  on  the 
step  beside  her. 

"  What  brought  you  to  Ashurst,  Mr.  Fergu 
son?" 

"  Sentiment,  partly  ;  this  was  my  home  "  — 


THE   WIND    OF  DESTINY.  247 

""Well,  sentiment  will  take  us  to  Dinant. 
Sentiment  —  and  the  rest." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  It  is  not  your  fault ;  it 's 
a  fairy  tale.  Don't  you  remember  any  stories 
of  princesses  wandering  about  in  dark  woods, 
—  like  those  you  painted,  —  but  real  princesses, 
only  disguised  in  rags,  you  know  ?  Here  comes 
Seraphine ;  ask  her.  Perhaps  when  you  are 
alone,  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  where  Ashurst 
cannot  hear  you,  Ashurst,  that  despises  ances 
tors,  —  except  Puritan  ones,  of  course,  —  perhaps 
then  she  will  tell  you  ;  "  and  with  a  good-by,  like 
the  dart  the  banderillo  plants  in  the  bull  as  he 
leaps  the  barrier,  with  a  smile  for  its  flaunting 
flag,  Elize  disappeared  in  the  house. 


xxxin. 

Rowan  called  Mabel,  and  the  three  went  down 
the  road  to  the  boat-house. 

In  the  sky  above  not  a  trace  of  the  storm  of 
the  night  before  remained.  The  road  was  wet 
and  muddy,  with  pools  of  yellow  water;  but  in 
the  fields  and  the  woods,  fresh  from  their  rain- 
bath,  a  world  of  life  was  astir.  A  striped  squir 
rel  ran  ahead  on  the  fence-rails,  and  a  bluebird 
preened  itself  on  the  post;  the  wayside  was 


248  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

alive  with  little  brown  sparrows,  fluttering  at 
their  approach  out  of  leafy  ambushes  to  sway  on 
bending  weeds.  In  the  air  was  a  bracing  fresh 
ness,  —  just  a  touch  of  winter  ahead,  —  and 
among  the  pines  on  the  hill-slopes  patches  of 
flaming  oaks,  interspersed  with  yellow  mists  of 
maple  leaves.  As  they  reached  the  boat-house, 
up  the  river,  in  short,  wary  flights,  came  a  belted 
kingfisher  with  his  metallic  scream. 

He  did  not  speak  except  by  furtive  glances,  to 
which  Seraphine  replied  sometimes  with  a  smile 
of  happiness.  Since  the  night  before  she  was  no 
longer  the  same  woman  to  him,  and  in  these 
quick  glances  he  saw  those  little  things  which 
marked  her  off  from  all  others,  and  which  were 
inexpressibly  dear  to  him.  She  wore  her  crim 
son  dress ;  was  it  accident  or  design  ? 

"  AVhat  is  it  Elize  means  by  your  going  away  ?  " 
said  he,  while  Mabel,  on  the  float,  was  endeav 
oring  to  push  the  boat  into  the  water. 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  that,"  she  replied. 

"  All  what,  Seraphine  ?  " 

"  You  know  my  mother  was  an  exile  here,  but 
we  have  just  received  news  of  our  grandfather's 
death,  and  that  we  —  Money  is  a  very  neces 
sary  thing,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face ; 
"but  it  isn't  worth  talking  about." 

"  Are  n't  you  going  to  get  in  ?  "  teased  Mabel, 
tugging  at  his  hand. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  249 

They  went  down  on  the  float  silently. 

"  You  will  not  only  have  to  care  for  me,  but 
mine,"  said  Seraphine,  as  steadying  herself  with 
his  hand  she  took  her  seat  in  the  stern.  He 
pulled  a  few  strokes  out  of  the  flags  into  the 
open  water  which  rippled  from  the  prow,  where 
Mabel  leaned  over,  with  eyes  divided  between 
the  treasures  of  the  water  deeps  and  the  image 
of  her  own  curly  head  on  its  surface.  "  This  is 
to  be  our  life :  you  at  the  oar,  I  at  the  rudder. 
What  does  it  matter  if  the  currents  are  with  us  ?  " 

"  '  But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this 
upon  her,'  "  he  repeated. 

"  All  what,  Rowan  ?  Things  we  do  not  care 
the  most  for  ?  "  And  in  saying  this  she  thought 
how  the  world  had  changed  for  her  since  she 
talked  of  Dinant  with  Schonberg. 

"  I  can  see  two  skies,"  cried  Mabel,  with  her 
head  over  the  rail,  "  and  fishes  !  " 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied,  lifting  her  eyes 
and  letting  them  fall  again. 

"  Dr.  Schonberg  goes  with  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  But,  Seraphine  "  —  He  ceased  rowing  and 
leaned  forward.  "  I  cannot  let  you  go  —  you 
know  that  well "  — 

A  deep  color  overspread  her  face.  "  Will  you 
promise  not  to  speak  of  it  again,  if  I  answer  you 
now?" 


250  TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  I  promise." 

"  In  Dinant  I  will  be  your  wife,"  she  said. 

He  stood  up  in  the  boat.  "  Why  don't  you 
row  ?  "  said  Mabel,  who  suddenly  found  herself 
in  Rowan's  arms  and  heard  him  say,  "I  will 
row  you  to  the  end  of  the  world."  But  to  her 
he  could  not  utter  a  word.  For  a  long  time  he 
feared  even  to  meet  her  eyes ;  what  she  had 
spoken  clothed  her  with  sanctity.  When  at  last 
he  regained  possession  of  himself,  it  was  to  talk 
of  Dinant,  of  her  mother,  and  of  Schonberg; 
uttering  everything  but  his  thoughts,  —  thoughts 
of  which  she  nevertheless  was  conscious. 

The  boat  had  drifted  into  the  flags  again,  and 
Mabel,  leaning  over  the  side,  was  pulling  at  the 
stems.  "  See  !  "  she  cried,  climbing  over  the 
thwart  and  depositing  her  wet  and  muddy  tro 
phies  in  Seraphine's  lap,  "  these  are  for  you." 

Notwithstanding  Rowan's  determination  to  tell 
Seraphine  what  had  taken  place,  he  found  it 
more  difficult  than  he  had  foreseen.  His  impulse 
was  still  to  confide  all  to  her ;  but  love,  in  its 
first  experience  of  happiness  beyond  the  reach 
of  trouble,  trembles  at  the  proving  offices  of  coun 
selor  and  friend.  To  withhold  anything  from 
her  was  repugnant  to  him.  "  Why  should  I  ?  "  he 
thought.  Aunt  Isabel,  Jack,  for  Gladys'  sake 
he  might  deceive ;  but  Seraphine !  Free  from 
blame,  why  should  he  deceive  her  ?  And  yet  it 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

did  not  seem  now  so  easy  to  explain  as  before. 
Even  if  there  were  no  blame,  it  is  praise,  not 
acquittal,  we  ask  from  love.  Was  he  about  to 
inflict  a  pain  to  satisfy  a  sentiment  ?  And  there 
was  Gladys;  had  generosity  nothing  for  her? 
Certainly  if  he  was  blameless,  it  was  not  a  duty ; 
and  if  only  a  pleasure,  was  it  not  a  cruel  one  ? 

On  the  homeward  way  they  had  stopped  in 
the  tea-house,  as  if  to  wait  there  were  to  arrest 
that  fast-flying  day. 

"  Seraphine,"  said  Rowan,  suddenly,  "  you 
have  a  right  to  know  everything  in  my  life,  and 
have  I  none  to  your  help  and  counsel  ?  "  She 
looked  up  with  surprise,  though  she  had  been 
conscious  of  something  —  she  did  not  know  what 
—  to  come.  Then  he  told  her  of  his  return  home 
the  evening  before,  and  all  that  had  transpired. 
But  he  could  not  stop  there.  There  was  a  be 
ginning  as  well  as  an  end.  He  must  go  back, 
way  back  to  the  day  when  Aunt  Isabel  had  sar 
castically  observed  that  she  "  could  forgive  a 
woman  for  loving,  but  not  a  man  for  not  know 
ing  it."  That  was  years  ago  :  he  was  a  boy 
then,  and  she  a  girl.  How  could  he  know  that 
in  coming  back  .  .  .  for  Gladys  was  married. 
He  stopped  as  if  Gladys  had  risen  from  the  bed 
where  he  had  laid  her,  and  with  a  look  had  struck 
him  dumb. 

Seraphine  had  not  uttered  a  word.     It  had 


252  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

seemed  so  simple  to  live  and  love ;  now,  noth 
ing  was  safe  or  sure.  A  pang  of  —  she  would 
not  own  it  jealousy,  for  to  first  love  jealousy, 
the  index  of  its  strength,  seems  to  announce 
its  end.  A  strange  pity,  too,  mingled  with  her 
indignation  against  this  woman,  —  wife  and 
mother !  —  who  had  invaded  the  sanctity  of  her 
life. 

"  Seraphine,"  said  Rowan,  holding  her  hand 
fast  in  his,  "  I  had  to  tell  you.  If  you  should 
have  known  it  in  some  other  way,  how  could  I 
have  explained,  even  if  I  had  kept  it  for  your 
sake  ?  But  that  is  not  the  reason  ;  I  can  have 
nothing  from  you.  It  would  never  have  been  if 
I  could  have  loved  —  any  one  but  you.  Can 
you  not  forgive  me  for  confiding  ?  I  do  not  say 
confessing,  —  it  would  not  be  true.  I  do  not  say 
that  it  makes  no  difference,  —  it  does.  After  last 
night  nothing  will  ever  be  the  same  —  but  you." 

He  was  right ;  there  was  nothing  to  forgive. 
If  there  only  had  been,  her  heart  would  have 
overflowed  with  tears.  The  blight  for  which  we 
are  not  to  blame  is  the  cruelest,  the  cause  to  which 
we  can  least  attach  responsibility  the  most  tragic. 
For  the  first  time  some  unseen  hand  unrolled 
before  her  the  web  of  good  and  evil,  unveiled 
the  chaos  of  atoms  which  cannot  get  out  of  each 
other's  way.  No  man  liveth  to  himself  ;  we  are 
always  between  some  one  and  the  sun. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  253 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  disengaging  her  hand ; 
it  felt  strangely  in  his. 

"  You  are  not  displeased  with  me,  Sera- 
phine  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Have  I  done  rightly  ?  " 

She  made  another  sign  with  her  head,  and 
they  walked  on  side  by  side. 

"  Seraphine,  you  love  me  —  you  are  not  going 
to  leave  me  so  —  without  a  word,"  he  said  as 
they  reached  the  porch. 

A  sad  smile  passed  over  her  lips.  If  she  had 
not  loved,  there  had  been  no  pain.  "  A  word, 
Rowan  ?  I  have  spoken  it  —  it  can  never  be 
taken  back,  but "  — 

"  But  what,  Seraphine  ?  Tell  me."  She  stood 
close  beside  him,  and  was  so  far  away.  "  I 
know  I  have  given  you  pain,  I  who  would  — 
Phrases !  "  he  said,  looking  down,  "  they  are  not 
for  you." 

"  But  I  love  them,"  she  whispered. 

"  Tell  me  you  are  happy,"  he  said  eagerly, 
secure  again  in  her  caressing  smile. 

She  stood  just  above  him,  twisting  the  dark 
clusters  on  the  woodbine  climbing  the  post.  "  It 
seems  as  if  we  were  dreaming  yesterday.  I  was 
above  everything ;  but  now  "  — 

"  Seraphine  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  if  he  would 
bury  the  words  before  they  could  be  spoken  in 


254  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

the  sound  of  her  own  name.  But  he  understood 
her.  The  purple  berries  fell  from  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  ;  she  brushed  them  away  softly,  and 
went  in  the  house.  As  he  walked  down  the  path 
with  Mabel  dancing  like  a  butterfly  in  the  sun, 
that  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  was 
sweeter  than  reconciling  words.- 

"  Seraphine,"  said  Elize  that  evening,  tying 
the  ribbon  in  her  braid  before  the  glass,  "  if  it 
were  all  a  mistake,  and  we  were  not  going  back 
to  Dinant,  would  n't  you  be  disappointed  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Seraphine  hesitatingly. 

"  I  should,"  said  Elize,  "  miserably  so.  As  it 
is,  I  am  uncomfortably  happy.  This  little  room 
of  ours  we  are  going  to  leave  reproaches  me.  It 
is  almost  as  if  when  one  is  happy  one  ought  not 
to  ask  why  "  —  And  fastening  the  buttons  on 
her  long  night-dress,  Elize  rose  and  knelt  down 
beside  the  bed. 

"  Certainly  one  ought  to  thank  God  for  being 
happy,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  knees,  "  but  it 
seems  terribly  like  thanking  Him  that  we  are 
not  as  others  are."  She  got  into  bed,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  picture  on  the  wall  above,  —  the 
chateau  of  Walzins,  overhanging  the  Lesse, 
which  stole  between  the  rock  and  the  meadows, 
with  shadowy  forms  of  wall  and  turret,  cress 
and  yellow  iris,  on  its  limpid  surface.  "  What 
do  you  think  uncle  said  to  me  the  other  day  ? 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  255 

That  our  happiness  is  always  a  drop  of  honey 
distilled  from  others'  pain.  Do  you  believe 
it?" 

" How  could  I  be  happy  if  I  did?"  said  Sera- 
phine. 

XXXIV. 

When  Rowan  returned  with  Mabel,  James 
was  in  the  garden  covering  the  flowers  in  anti 
cipation  of  an  unseasonable  frost.  From  him 
Rowan  learned  that  Jack  had  arrived,  and  that 
the  physician  summoned  from  the  city  was  ex 
pected  on  the  last  evening  train.  No  one  was 
on  the  terrace,  and  the  house  was  still.  On  the 
way  back  he  called  on  the  village  doctor,  but  he 
was  not  at  home. 

In  the  morning  he  returned  again.  The 
library  door  was  open,  but  no  one  was  within 
sight  or  hearing.  The  open  door,  the  chairs 
under  the  awning,  the  closed  blinds  above,  all 
betokened  a  profound  indifference  to  the  outside 
world.  He  waited  awhile  on  the  terrace,  fear 
ing  to  disturb  this  silence,  and  endeavoring  to 
extract  from  the  signs  about  him  some  good 
augury.  At  last,  impatient  with  anxiety,  he 
went  in.  Jack's  hat  was  on  the  table.  He 
opened  the  door  into  the  hall  softly,  and  ascend 
ing  the  stairs  followed  the  long  corridor  leading 


256  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

to  Aunt  Isabel's  chamber.  He  was  about  to 
knock  when  he  heard  voices  within,  — -  the  high, 
angry  one  of  his  aunt,  and  another  expostulat 
ing  and  broken  with  sobbing.  On  the  point  of 
returning,  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Ellen 
came  out.  Her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and 
Aunt  Isabel,  trembling  with  excitement,  con 
fronted  him. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you  !  "  she  cried.  "  This  is  very 
well ;  oh,  yes,  this  is  capital !  " 

He  looked  from  her  shining  eyes  to  Ellen,  who 
hung  her  head  as  if  wishing  to  hide  herself  from 
him. 

"  Well !  why  do  you  stand  there  ?  You  wish 
to  hatch  more  misery  ?  "  The  sound  of  her  voice, 
breaking  the  silence  of  the  house,  more  than  what 
she  said,  caused  him  a  sort  of  terror,  and  he  en 
tered  the  room  quickly,  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  "  '  Tell  your  mistress  nothing  is  known,'  " 
said  Aunt  Isabel  derisively ;  "  you  should  have 
told  her  while  she  could  listen,  —  before  killing 
her." 

He  turned  pale,  and  advanced  towards  her, 
trembling. 

"  Is  Gladys  dead  ?  " 

"  Is  it  any  fault  of  yours  if  she  is  not  ? 
Heavens  1  and  yesterday  you  were  here  asking 
questions,  playing  the  innocent,  —  you  who  knew 
everything !  " 


TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  257 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  faltered,  knowing 
perfectly  well  what  she  meant,  and  conscious 
that  what  he  said  was  an  absurdity. 

"  Oh,  deny  nothing  ;  it  is  too  late  !  "  cried  the 
old  lady,  walking  the  room  and  moving  aim 
lessly  the  objects  on  her  mantel  and  dressing- 
table  without  knowing  what  she  was  doing.  He 
had  never  seen  her  in  such  a  state.  Her  lips 
trembled  with  words  she  could  not  articulate, 
and  her  sentences  were  finished  with  gestures. 
"  It  is  too  late  ;  Ellen  has  confessed  everything. 
So  you  intrigue  with  servants !  After  such  a 
night  with  the  mother,  you  amuse  the  child  with 
stories !  Great  God !  and  He  permits  such 
things !  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  everything," 
she  continued,  arresting  the  exclamation  on  his 
lips.  "  We  bury  ourselves  in  a  house  out  of  the 
way.  We  shut  ourselves  up  there  with  a  woman 
who  once  loved  us,  to  paint  her  portrait.  And 
I,  —  Heaven  pardon  me !  —  I  believe  this  rub 
bish  !  this  innocent,  whose  good  actions  are  paid 
in  five-hundred-franc  notes  !  " 

"  You  are  mad,"  said  Rowan.  He  knew  her 
explosive  nature,  and  addressed  these  words  to 
himself  as  if  to  remonstrate  with  his  own  rising 
anger. 

"  And  we  have  meetings  at  night,"  she  went 
on,  without  heeding  him  ;  "  we  bribe  honest  ser 
vants  ;  we  play  with  things  we  do  not  under- 


258  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

stand,  with  fire.  Why  did  you  not  brihe  the 
fire  ?  Do  you  know  that  fire  burns  ?  "Well, 
honestly,  I  believe  not.  How  should  a  fool 
know  anything !  Where  was  Gladys  night  be 
fore  last  ? "  she  said,  turning  suddenly  upon 
him. 

"  If  you  mean  where  did  I  find  her,"  he  re 
plied,  trying  to  speak  calmly,  "  I  found  her  at 
my  doorstep." 

"  If  I  mean  !  At  your  doorstep  !  Marvelous ! 
God  forgive  me,  but  in  my  time  men  were  at 
least  men.  So  you  found  her,  —  a  fine  story ; 
found  her,  —  and  at  your  doorstep !  And  this 
is  all  you  have  to  say  !  " 

"  Till  you  are  reasonable  enough  to  listen." 

"  Reasonable  !  "  The  word  was  fuel  to  her 
unreason.  "  First  destroy,  ravage,  trample  under 
foot,  and  then  you  will  be  reasonable.  You  are 
like  the  rest,  —  first  passion,  and  afterwards 
reflection."  She  turned  her  back  upon  him, 
muttering  to  herself  and  adjusting  her  cap  be 
fore  the  glass,  and,  finally,  sitting  down  in  her 
chair,  took  hold  of  its  arms  tightly.  "  Yes,  let 
us  be  reasonable  ;  let  us  try  and  save  some 
thing,"  she  said,  despairingly. 

Rowan  looked  at  her  without  the  power  of 
saying  a  word.  Hers  stung  and  stupefied  him. 
It  was  like  a  nightmare. 

"  Well,  begin ;  but  have  a  care,"  said  Aunt 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  259 

Isabel.  "  I  am  not  a  child  to  be  amused  with 
stories  ;  and  after  what  has  happened  "  — 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  he  interrupted,  los 
ing  patience.  "  What  happened  years  ago  when 
Gladys  —  I  do  not  accuse  her,  but  you  know  as 
well  as  I.  I  was  the  hundredth  fly  in  the  web, 
—  spread  unconsciously,  let  us  say,  —  and  I 
escaped ! " 

"Oh,  the  fine  distance  !  "  muttered  Aunt  Isa 
bel.  "  With  time  men  become  gods." 

"  Fire  !  Who  was  it  played  with  fire  ?  An 
swer  me." 

"  And  he  does  not  accuse  her ;  he  forgives 
her  !  "  she  muttered  again,  sarcastically. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  helplessness.  "It  is 
useless,"  he  said,  turning  away. 

"Rowan,"  she  exclaimed  piteously,  following 
him  with  her  eyes,  "  night  before  last  Gladys 
was  here.  She  played  chess  with  me  at  this 
table."  Her  voice  trembled  and  softened.  "  She 
had  a  headache.  What  does  that  signify  ?  Yes 
terday  she  was  going  with  Mabel  to  the  yacht ; 
her  trunks  wero  ready.  There  is  something,  — 
something  you  have  not  told  me.  Let  us  not 
trifle  with  each  other,  Rowan." 

His  anger  rose  as  hers  fell. 

"  What  can  I  tell  you,  who  divine  everything? 
I  have  said  I  found  Gladys  at  my  door.  Lis 
ten."  The  supplication  of  her  eyes  touched 


260  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

him,  and,  sitting  down  beside  her,  he  took  her 
hand  and  told  her  all :  of  his  first  interview 
with  his  cousin,  the  discovery  of  Seraphine's  por 
trait,  everything  that  had  passed  between  them. 
Sitting  silently  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor,  he  saw  that  sh%was  listening  eagerly. 
"  Who  could  foresee  this  ?  You  knew  I  was  to 
return  ;  you  yourself  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  me  here,  in  this  house.  Why  did  I  bribe 
servants  ?  Ask  yourself,  —  you  are  a  woman. 
I  know  what  I  have  to  do  now,"  he  said,  stand 
ing  before  her :  "  I  have  to  go.  That  is  not 
much  :  if  I  hated  her,  I  could  do  no  less  ;  if  I 
loved  her,  no  more.  It  is  ignominious." 

She  looked  at  him  mournfully.  "  Yes,  go." 
There  was  a  bitterness  in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 
"  There  may  yet  toll  a  bell  here,  and  the  sound 
is  not  pleasant ;  and  I  will  stay  —  there  is  the 
husband  to  be  deceived.  At  my  age,  lies  and 
acting !  but  one  must  think  of  others.  Yes, 
go  ;  that  is  right,  by  all  means.  As  you  say, 
there  is  no  help  for  it.  You  will  go  with  Miss 
Fleming.  In  time  you  will  forget  it,  and  she 
will  not  know  it." 

Her  words  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  to 
wound  him.  He  saw  the  love  from  which  they 
were  wrung. 

"You  are  mistaken.  She  knows  it,  and  we 
shall  not  forget  it." 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  261 

"You  have  told  her?" 

"  Because  I  love  her,"  he  replied  laconically. 

"  He  has  told  her  !  "  muttered  the  old  lady 
to  herself.  "  What  folly !  And  because  he 
loves  her ! "  She  was  no  longer  speaking  to 
him ;  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  hands,  tying  and 
untying  the  strings  of  her  cap,  she  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  presence. 

"  And  the  trunks  were  all  ready,"  he  heard 
her  say,  as  he  went  out  the  door. 

Ellen  was  still  in  the  corridor. 

"  Go  in,"  he  said  to  her.  "  She  will  forgive 
you." 

XXXV. 

Jack  was  coming  down  from  his  room,  in  the 
hotel  he  frequented  while  the  city  house  was 
closed  for  the  summer,  when  the  hall-boy  gave 
him  his  morning  paper  and  letters.  He  took 
them  with  a  nod,  and  descended  the  stairs  to 
the  rotunda  with  that  air  of  physical  well-being 
which  belongs  to  health  between  the  morning 
toilet  and  breakfast.  Threading  his  way  among 
the  crowd  going  and  coming  in  the  open  space 
before  the  office,  with  an  occasional  word  to  an 
acquaintance,  and  a  glance  at  the  bulletin-board 
to  see  that  the  weather  promised  fair  for  the 
Vixen,  he  entered  the  breakfast-room,  where 


262  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

the  table  in  the  farther  corner,  commanding  a 
view  of  the  door  and  the  street,  was  reserved  for 
him  as  usual.  While  the  waiter,  familiar  with 
his  tastes,  —  for  Jack  had  long  since  passed  the 
callow  period  when  a  menu  is  a  source  of  per 
plexity,  —  was  gone  for  breakfast,  he  glanced  at 
the  head-lines  of  the  columns,  ran  his  eye  over 
the  stock  market,  then,  laying  his  paper  on  the 
window-sill,  began  to  take  the  ice  from  the 
melon  before  him.  His  mail  still  remained 
where  he  had  placed  it,  beside  his  plate.  The 
melon  finished,  he  took  up  the  pile  and  examined 
the  postmarks  leisurely.  Between  a  blue  enve 
lope  from  Messina  and  a  yellow  one  from  the 
city  he  found  a  large  white  one,  of  a  square 
form,  which  he  honored  by  opening  immediately. 
If  its  contents  surprised  him,  there  was  no  evi 
dence  of  the  fact  other  than  that,  after  finishing 
it,  he  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  unending  throng  hurrying  by  the  window, 
till  the  arrival  of  breakfast  disturbed  his  re 
flections.  The  only  visible  outcome  of  Gladys' 
announcement  was  a  list  of  stores,  made  out  at 
intervals,  and  destined  to  supplement,  on  her 
account,  the  somewhat  plain  bill  of  fare  which 
sufficed  for  his  sea  appetite.  This  detail  com 
pleted,  he  gathered  up  his  letters,  ordered  a  car 
riage  to  meet  Gladys'  train,  and  passed  out  into 
the  vestibule  of  the  main  entrance.  It  was 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  263 

here,  while  lighting  his  cigar,  that  he  received 
Aunt  Isabel's  dispatch.  He  looked  at  his  watch, 
countermanded  his  order  for  the  carriage,  and, 
hailing  a  passing  cab,  drove  rapidly  to  the 
Ashurst  station. 

Jack  had  always  been  credited  with  opinions 
he  did  not  entertain,  and  tastes  he  did  not  pos 
sess.  The  tolerance  with  which  he  viewed  the 
actions  of  others  was  attributed  to  an  indul 
gence  which  did  not,  however,  extend  to  his  own. 
Elastic  in  his  judgments,  Jack  was  really  quite 
inflexible  in  his  principles;  but  he  applied  them 
do  much  more  rigorously  to  himself  than  to 
others  that  what  deserved  the  name  of  character 
passed  for  a  happy  combination  of  common  sense 
and  good  nature.  He  was  called  lucky,  yet  he 
had  no  more  faith  in  luck  than  the  savage  has. 
Confidence  in  his  luck  was  so  great,  however, 
that  in  the  currents  of  business  life,  among  the 
whirlpools  of  speculation,  people  tied  to  him  as 
to  a  barge  moored  midstream. 

He  belonged,  by  social  position,  to  a  society 
he  could  not  ignore,  and  which  could  not  ignore 
him.  But  society  was  generally  thought  to  be 
a  bore  to  him,  while  in  reality  he  enjoyed  it  in 
his  silent  way,  —  like  the  flavor  of  a  good  cigar. 
It  was  astonishing  how  many  people  counted 
him  their  own  particular  friend.  He  never 
spoke  of  himself,  —  a  source  of  popularity  few 


264  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

discover.  He  was  not  very  "  well  read,"  and 
therefore  had  no  second-hand  information  to 
distribute ;  but  the  results  of  his  own  observa 
tion  and  experience  would  sometimes  ripple 
forth  with  the  freshness  and  force  of  truth 
itself.  Even  the  coquette  liked  Jack,  while 
sparing  him;  he  was  too  sincere  to  see  that 
form  of  art,  and,  as  Gladys  said  to  Aunt  Isabel 
after  the  ball  where  she  first  met  him,  "  deli- 
ciously  unconscious  of  his  own  qualities."  . 

While  riding  to  Ashurst  with  Aunt  Isabel's  dis 
patch  in  his  pocket,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  he 
should  recall  that  first  night  he  saw  Gladys.  He 
could  see  her  now  :  her  small  face  just  pensive 
and  spirituelle  enough  to  give  the  rather  strik 
ing  toilette  its  piquancy,  the  blue  eyes  filled  to 
the  brim  with  sadness,  all  the  more  effective  be 
cause  Gladys  was  never  sad  and  the  small  mouth 
beneath  them  was  always  on  the*  edge  of  a  smile. 
He  remembered,  too,  how,  when  summer  came, 
Gladys,  who  detested  sailing  as  he  did  lying  at 
anchor,  had  arranged  for  a  dinner  on  the  Vixen 
with  so  naive  a  timidity  and  so  peremptory  an 
insistence  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
could  not  tell  whether  the  act  was  his  own  or 
not.  And  this  recollection  brought  to  mind  a 
cloud  of  white  lace  enveloped  in  a  Moorish  shawl, 
to  which  he  had  made  a  speech  on  that  occasion 
whose  intensity  of  purpose,  lack  of  deliberation, 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  £65 

and  deficiency  in  logical  form  had  so  surprised 
him. 

"  Miss  Ferguson,  I  have  always  had  an  ideal 
of  woman  which  you  do  not  in  the  least  fulfill 
.  .  .  but  I  love  you  ;  can  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Then  you  despair  of  meeting  your  ideal,  Mr. 
Temple  ?  "  said  Gladys,  with  a  smile  in  her 
eyes  like  the  moonbeams  in  the  water. 

"  I  have  never  looked  for  it." 

"  So  you  start  with  ideals  and  finish  with  .  . . 
idols,"  and  Gladys,  sitting  on  the  bowsprit,  with 
the  Moorish  spangles  glittering  in  the  moonshine/ 
looked  up  into  his  face.  "  A  very  bad  exchange ; 
people  who  make^  idols  spend  their  life  in  keep 
ing  them  in  repair." 

"  You  have  not  answered  me,  Miss  Ferguson." 

"  They  will  say  I  arranged  this  party  with  an 
object,"  said  Gladys,  very  gravely.  "  Oh,  I  am 
not  trifling  in  the  least,"  she  added  quickly,  in 
terpreting  his  eyes. 

"  That  is  a  trifle,"  Jack  interrupted  somewhat 
impetuously. 

"  But  I  do  not  love  you,  Mr.  Temple."  And 
Gladys  opened  her  eyes  wide  with  a  look  of  re 
monstrance,  and  spread  her  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  helplessness. 

"  If  you  don't,  there  's  no  use  trying,"  said 
Jack.  His  reply  was  half  a  question,  for  in 
spite  of  Gladys'  rather  discouraging  remark  he 
felt  no  inclination  to  abandon  the  subject. 


266  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  You  scorn  to  appeal  to  ethical  motives ! " 
said  Gladys  a  little  mockingly ;  yet  he  did  not 
think  she  was  teasing  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  are  none  to  appeal  to  in 
this  case,  Miss  Ferguson.  Love  them  that  hate 
you  is  the  commandment." 

"  Oh,  we  surpass  the  commandment ;  we  can 
even  love  them  we  hate,"  and  Gladys  shut  her 
small  lips  tightly.  "  I  have  not  sought  this  in 
terview,  have  I,  Mr.  Temple  ?  "  she  exclaimed 
suddenly. 

"  God  forbid  !  "  said  Jack,  energetically. 

"  But  I  'm  quite  capable  of  it.  What  was  it 
I  heard  a  very  .  .  .  oh,  a  ve%y  dear  friend  of 
mine  saying  to  you,  —  the  one  you  took  to  din 
ner  to-night "... 

What  this  very  dear  friend  had  said  was  that 
Rowan,  who  had  just  sailed  for  Europe,  in  es 
caping  from  Gladys'  net  had  apparently  torn  it 
badly. 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  care  what  they  say," 
replied  Jack.  • 

"  Not  even  if  it  were  true  ?  " 

"  Never  —  when  I  succeed,"  said  Jack  hon 
estly. 

She  looked  up.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  which 
had  the  upper  hand,  —  the  sadness  or  the  smile. 
Perhaps  Gladys  was  responsible  for  neither,  and 
had  inherited  them  with  her  eyes  and  mouth ; 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  267 

for  how  could  one  have  two  such  moods  at  the 
same  time  ? 

"  How  foolish  would  you  dare  to  be  ? "  she 
said,  unfastening-  a  rose  from  the  cluster  at  her 
throat,  and  dropping  one  of  its  leaves  over  the 
rail.  "Enough  to  risk  success  on  its  turning 
twice?  Quick"  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  watching  its  fall. 

"Three  times,"  laughed  Gladys  as  it  touched 
the  water. 

"  Try  once  more,  Miss  Ferguson." 

"  It  is  n't  necessary,"  said  Gladys,  giving  him 
the  rose.  "  Come,  you  and  I  are  neglecting  our 
guests." 

"  Aunt  Isabel,"  said  Gladys  that  evening  with 
a  firmness  which  announced  an  important  deci 
sion,  "  I  am  going  to  marry  "  — 

"  To  be  married !  " 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  "  to  marry." 

The  reasons  which  had  prevented  Aunt  Isabel 
from  entering  what  she  called  "  the  double  state  " 
had  not  controlled  her  aspirations  for  Gladys. 
It  was  difficult,  however,  to  urge  her  wishes 
without  admitting  that  she  served  as  a  warning 
rather  than  as  an  example.  But  the  old  lady 
knew  all  the  symptoms  of  love's  malady,  though, 
as  she  said,  she  had  never  died  of  it,  and  inti 
mated  in  a  somewhat  excited  manner,  as  she  ad 
justed  her  cap,  that,  while  the  announcement  was 


268  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

sudden,  she  was  much  pleased  and  had  foreseen 
it  for  some  time. 

"  Foreseen  what  ?  "  said  Gladys,  tranquilly. 
Aunt  Isabel's  eyes  shone  with  conscious  superi 
ority.  "  I  think  it  was  quite  unpremeditated  on 
Mr.  Temple's  part,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  on 
mine." 

"  Gladys  Ferguson,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Isabel, 
grasping  the  situation  with  her  customary  rapid 
ity,  "you  are  doing  what  you  know  you  will 
regret.  You  do  not  consult  my  judgment, — 
let  that  pass ;  but  you  might  consult  your  own 
conscience,  not  to  say  heart." 

"  Don't  let  us  be  personal,"  said  Gladys,  softly 
but  firmly. 

"  Personal ! " 

"  Mr.  Temple  knows  what  people  say,"  inter 
rupted  Gladys,  "  and  is  quite  as  indifferent  as  I 
am." 

"Which  you  are  not"  interjected  her  aunt, 
wrathfully. 

"  Furthermore,  I  told  him  I  did  not  love  him." 

"  The  more  fool  he  "  - 

"  If  everybody 's  a  fool,  you  must  n't  expect  so 
much  wisdom,"  pursued  Gladys.  "  Mr.  Temple 
has  consulted  the  auguries,  as  Caesar  did :  don't 
you  remember  the  story,  how  the  bird  had  no 
heart  ?  But  Caesar  persisted,  and  Mr.  Temple 
—  follows  his  example." 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  269 

Aunt  Isabel  easily  lost  her  temper  with  Gla 
dys  ;  but  there  were  farther  limits  to  her  iras 
cibility,  beyond  which  she  passed  into  a  state  of 
scorn  whose  silence  was  annihilating. 

"  You  have  no  objection  to  Mr.  Temple,  have 
you?  "  asked  Gladys,  following  her  aunt  with  her 
eyes  as  she  moved  about  the  room,  grimly  mak 
ing  her  preparations  for  the  night.  Aunt  Isa 
bel's  only  reply  was  an  expressive  pull  at  the  bell 
which  summoned  Ellen.  Gladys  sighed,  and 
gathered  up  the  long  pins  which  had  secured  her 
wrappings,  and  which  during  the  conversation 
had  been  accumulating  in  her  lap. 

"  If  your  suppositions  were  correct,  Aunt  Isa 
bel,"  she  said,  at  the  door,  "you  ought  to  be 
more  pitiful  than  angry.  It 's  too  bad  to  have  a 
relapse  when  one  is  convalescent." 

It  was  very  aggravating  to  Aunt  Isabel  to 
know  that  Gladys  at  that  very  instant  was  ex 
ceedingly  bewitching,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
with  a  wound  in  her  heart  and  a  half-repentant, 
half-willful  smile  on  her  lips.  But  she  continued 
her  preparations  with  a  scornful  indifference  so 
far  superior  to  frowns  or  anger  that  Gladys 
closed  the  door. 

Jack  had  sought  this  interview  as  little  as  Gla 
dys,  though  he  know  when  he  first  saw  her  that 
evening  what  he  was  going  to  do.  But,  musing 
over  his  cigar  that  night,  he  was  not  in  the  least 
surprised  at  what  had  happened. 


270  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

How  many  such  moments  in  life,  when,  uncon 
scious  of  any  single  final  decision,  we  know,  nev 
ertheless,  that  it  has  been  made  !  The  very  cur 
rents  which  solicited  us  when  choice  was  possible 
act  at  last  mechanically,  the  inertia  of  our  own 
indecision  becomes  a  momentum,  and  we  realize 
that  we  are  passing  the  edge  of  the  rapid  into 
the  dead  water  which  hugs  the  shore,  or  the  tide 
which  overhangs  the  fall. 

The  anxiety  and  apprehension  of  Jack's  ride 
to  Ashurst  were  not  diminished  by  the  fact  that 
the  consequences  of  this  rash  act,  so  unique  in 
his  life,  had  belied  all  the  business  principles 
which  in  other  respects  governed  it.  For  he  had 
been  unreservedly  happy  with  Gladys.  Of  this 
there  was  no  doubt ;  men  may  be  content  with 
only  the  reputation  for  wisdom,  but  never  with 
the  reputation  for  being  happy.  The  better  he 
knew  her,  the  more  he  respected  her.  For  every 
fault  she  had  some  balancing  virtue.  She  was 
fond  of  society,  but  was  mistress  of  a  house 
whose  affairs  went  on  with  the  order  and  regu 
larity  of  clockwork.  He  had  a  great  admiration 
for  this  delicate,  sensitive  spring,  quivering  at 
the  slightest  touch,  yet  driving  the  wheels  with 
an  apparently  inexhaustible  supply  of  nervous 
energy.  Gladys  enjoyed  trifles  and  trifling,  but 
on  all  important  issues  was  sincerity  and  truth 
fulness  itself.  He  never  felt  the  desire  to  con- 


TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  271 

trol  her,  because  the  need  out  of  which  desire 
arises  was  absolutely  lacking.  In  his  ideal  there 
had  been  an  attractive  element  of  weakness  and 
dependence,  due  perhaps  to  his  strong  physique 
and  warm  heart ;  he  had  always  secretly  longed 
to  protect  and  shelter  something,  and  while  Gla 
dys  at  times  threw  herself  upon  his  judgment, 
and  gave  him  her  hand  in  difficult  or  giddy 
places  in  a  way  which  gratified  this  longing  be 
yond  expectation,  she  could  also  walk  alone  with 
an  independence  which  raised  his  love  from  sen 
timentality  to  worship.  He  had  never  been 
more  free  than  since  his  marriage.  Doubtless 
money  had  permitted  Gladys  to  save  him  from 
some  of  the  worries  incidental  to  his  new  duties, 
yet  he  had  the  feeling  that  were  they  living  in  a 
garret,  matters  would  go  on  in  about  the  same 
orderly  manner.  Others  had  also  been  won  by 
this  balance  of  Gladys'  qualities.  She  disarmed 
envy  by  kindness  ;  originality  took  all  the  sting 
out  of  her  eccentricities,  and  brilliancy  all  the 
poison  out  of  her  malice.  She  had  told  him  with 
a  fearlessness  and  a  frankness  that  failed  to  in 
spire  the  least  alarm  that  her  "very  dear  friend" 
was  entirely  right,  and  that  she  had  loved  her 
cousin  as  much  as,  under  the  circumstances,  her 
pride  would  allow ;  she  added  that  she  had  no 
further  belief  in  love,  and  straightway  fulfilled 
all  love's  offices  in  so  charming  a  manner  that, 


272  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

while  Jack  believed  her  confession,  he  had  no 
faith  in  her  creed.  She  had  told  him  so  clearly 
of  Rowan's  passive  role  in  what  she  called  her 
stage  romance  that  the  only  feeling  aroused  by 
her  cousin's  return  had  been  a  kindly  pity  for  a 
man  who  had  lost  his  opportunity. 

Nevertheless,  a  vague  uneasiness  increased 
the  anxiety  caused  by  the  brief,  imperative  dis 
patch  in  his  pocket.  He  remembered  now  all 
that  was  unusual  in  Gladys'  manner  the  day  be 
fore  ;  and  if  this  uneasiness  took  no  definite 
form  in  his  thoughts,  it  was  because  he  broke 
away  from  their  grasp  whenever  it  threatened  to 
do  so. 

James  was  at  the  horse's  head  as  the  train 
drew  into  the  station.  He  touched  his  hat, 
scrutinizing  obliquely  his  master's  face,  as  the 
latter  entered  the  carriage.  Jack  asked  no 
questions  ;  since  James  had  nothing  to  volun 
teer,  he  did  not  dare  to.  From  the  carriage  he 
went  straight  to  his  wife's  chamber.  Ellen  rose 
from  the  bedside  as  he  came  in ;  but  he  mo 
tioned  to  her  to  remain.  If  she  feared  to  be 
questioned,  her  fear  was  groundless  ;  for,  after 
standing  a  moment  beside  the  bed,  he  stooped 
over  Gladys'  unconscious  form,  kissed  the  unre 
sponsive  hand,  and  left  the  room. 

Ellen  was  suffering  under  the  weight  of  a  re 
sponsibility  to  which  she  was  not  accustomed. 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  273 

After  her  confession  to  the  doctor  that  evening 
on  the  terrace,  she  felt  relieved  ;  but  the  pres 
sure  returned  again  at  night  in  the  long,  still 
hours  by  Gladys'  bedside.  Face  to  face  with 
that  one  great  reality  in  whose  presence  every 
prop  of  deception  falls  away,  her  confidence  in 
Rowan  forsook  her,  and  she  waited  impatiently 
for  the  gray  light  of  morning  and  the  first  sound 
from  Aunt  Isabel's  chamber  to  go  and  unbosom 
herself.  She  was  ready  to  brave  the  storm  of 
indignation  which  awaited  her ;  but  was  aston 
ished,  on  returning,  as  Rowan  had  bidden  her, 
to  find  that  she  was  not  only  forgiven  but  for 
gotten,  and  for  a  moment  experienced  the  cha 
grin  which  follows  the  loss  of  an  accidental  and 
temporary  importance.  Ignorant  of  the  real 
nature  of  the  confidence  which  had  been  placed 
in  her,  she  regretted  its  hasty  betrayal  when  she 
relieved  Margaret  again  at  Gladys'  bedside.  In 
the  bright  morning  sun  the  fears  of  the  night 
had  disappeared  with  its  shadows.  What  would 
Gladys  say  when  she  recovered  ?  for  she  loved 
Gladys.  She  accused  herself  of  weakness,  espe 
cially  when  she  heard  Jack's  footsteps  in  the 
corridor  and  his  knock  at  Aunt  Isabel's  door, 
divining  the  subject  of  the  conversation  which 
occupied  the  hour  before  she  heard  it  open  and 
close  again.  What  had  she  done?  Relieved 
from  all  anxiety  on  her  own  account,  her  solici- 


274  TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

tude  for  her  mistress  redoubled.  To  her  relief 
and  wonder,  Jack  did  not  enter  Gladys'  room 
again  during  the  day,  and  the  next  morning, 
learning  that  he  had  returned  in  the  night  to  the 
city,  her  indignation  swelled  to  bounds  which 
included  all  created  male  beings. 


XXXVI. 

Mabel  was  playing  on  the  terrace  when  Jack 
came  out  of  Aunt  Isabel's  chamber. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  let 's  go  and  throw  stones 
in  the  river." 

She  sprang  to  his  neck  with  an  exclamation 
of  delight,  and,  having  relieved  her  little  heart 
of  its  overflow  of  happiness,  ran  on  ahead. 
"  It 's  astonishing  how  that  child  loves  me," 
thought  Jack.  "  Because  you  love  her,"  said  a 
voice.  "  That  does  not  follow,"  replied  another 
quickly.  "Must  be  instinct,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  cutting  short  the  dispute.  He  had  passed 
a  sleepless  night,  listening  every  half  hour  at 
Gladys'  door,  and  falling  asleep  towards  morn 
ing  on  the  lounge.  When  he  awoke  the  sun 
was  shining  brightly.  He  lay  for  a  moment 
endeavoring  to  recall  a  dream,  then  rose  and 
threw  open  the  window.  Rowan  was  crossing  the 
lawn.  He  remembered  now ;  he  had  dreamed 


TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  275 

that  he  was  asleep  on  the  deck  of  the  Vixen,  and 
that  voices  in  the  cabin  below  were  continu 
ally  waking  him,  —  Rowan's  and  Aunt  Isabel's. 
He  dressed  himself  hurriedly  and  went  down  to 
the  latter's  room.  Scarcely  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  Ellen's  confession  and  her  interview 
with  Rowan,  Aunt  Isabel  was  in  no  mood  for 
deception  even  had  she  resolved  upon  it. 

"Why  not  tell  me  the  whole  story?"  said 
Jack  quietly.  "  If  she  does  n't  love  me,  I  love 
her." 

"  She  does  love  you ! "  cried  the  old  lady, 
vehemently,  proceeding  to  relate  all  that  had 
transpired,  without  reservation. 

Jack  listened  in  silence  ;  where  other  men  be 
trayed  excitement,  walked  to  and  fro,  or  gesticu 
lated,  he  stood  still.  But  Mabel  detected  an 
unusual  kindness  in  his  manner  as  they  strolled 
together  towards  the  river,  and  a  subserviency 
to  her  wishes  of  which  she  took  full  advantage. 

"  You  wait  a  moment  here,"  he  said  to  her 
at  Rowan's  gate ;  "  I  '11  be  back  directly." 

But  Mabel,  discovering  Nestor  curled  up  on 
the  flat  stone  before  the  door,  followed  after, 
bent  upon  renewing  their  acquaintance.  There 
was  sufficient  uncertainty  in  her  devices  for 
amusement  to  account  for  his  uneasy  eye,  which 
watched  her  every  movement  with  suspicion,  and 
constrained  a  certain  prudence  on  her  part  as 


276  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

she  proceeded,  with  an  accompaniment  of  per 
suasive  remarks,  to  ascertain  exactly  how  far 
she  could  trespass  with  impunity  on  his  dignity. 
The  door  was  open,  and  Rowan  looked  up  at  the 
sound  of  her  chatter  to  see  Jack.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  read  each  other. 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,"  said  Jack,  as  Rowan 
rose.  He  was  cleaning  his  gun,  and  had  the 
barrel  in  his  hand. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Rowan,  not  knowing  what 
to  say. 

Jack  seemed  neither  to  hear  nor  see  him,  but 
stood  looking  at  Gladys'  unfinished  picture  in 
the  corner. 

"  I  should  know  that  was  Gladys  if  I  only 
saw  her  foot,"  he  said,  slowly.  "You  don't  be 
lieve  in  hair  lines,  do  you  ?  Neither  do  I.  Hack 
it  out  with  a  sword,  I  say." 

A  moment  of  silence  followed. 

*'  You  tie  up  a  spirit  like  hers  in  a  body,"  he 
said,  turning  suddenly,  "  and  every  heart-beat 
makes  it  quiver.  Oh,  I  know,  better  than  you 
do.  You  don't  think  I  came  here  to  talk,  do 
you?  All  I  want  to  say  is  this:  if  what  has 
happened  does  n't  kill  her,  the  sight  of  you,  or 
me  either,  will.  When  are  you  going  away  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  spared  yourself  any  anxiety 
on  that  score,"  replied  Rowan. 

"  Well,  I  thought  so ;  but  some  people  are 
always  standing  on  their  rights,  you  know." 


TEE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  277 

"  Jack,"  exclaimed  Rowan,  stretching  out  his 
hand  impulsively,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

Jack  turned.  "  Do  you  remember  Gordon," 
said  he,  "  who  shot  Fay  down  on  the  Cape  ? 
Hammer  caught  on  the  gunwale  getting  into  the 
boat ;  nobody  to  blame.  If  it  had  been  inten 
tional,  they  might  have  hanged  him  and  evened 
things  up  a  little."  The  slow,  deliberate  tones 
of  his  voice  stirred  Rowan's  anger,  but  the  hag 
gard  face  confronting  him  checked  its  utterance. 
"  When  the  market  drops,"  pursued  Jack, 
"  somebody  's  better  off  ;  but  these  damned  ran 
dom  affairs,  when  everybody  fails  and  nobody  's 
to  blame  —  Come,  little  girl,"  he  said  to  Ma 
bel,  going  out  the  door. 

Half  way  down  to  the  gate  he  turned,  went 
back,  and  shook  Rowan's  hand  silently.  "  I  had 
no  right  to  marry  her,"  he  said  to  himself  after 
wards,  rolling  a  large  stone  to  the  edge  of  the 
bank  for  Mabel.  He  was  not  aware  of  any  ex 
cessive  tenderness  for  Mabel,  but  to  her  nice  dis 
crimination  of  moods  affecting  her  happiness,  it 
was  clear  as  sunlight.  There  was  nothing  she 
could  ask  to  which  he  was  not  ready  to  assent, 
and  he  told  her  his  longest  and  her  favorite 
story  on  the  terrace  before  bedtime. 

After  she  had  gone  he  walked  out  to  the  sta 
bles,  where  James  was  bedding  the  stalls  for  the 
night. 


278  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  What  time  does  the  last  train  go  through  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  At  eleven,  sir." 

"  Well,  harness  up  to  take  me  down." 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  speak  to  the  horses, 
pawing  and  trembling  with  ears  erect  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice.  Then  he  went  in  and  passed 
up  the  stairs  to  Aunt  Isabel's  chamber. 

"  How  is  she?"  he  asked,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  him. 

Aunt  Isabel,  who  had  been  waiting  for  his 
coming  all  day,  scanned  his  face  narrowly  as  she 
shook  her  head.  He  walked  to  the  window  in 
silence.  There  was  a  flaw  in  the  glass  which 
blurred  objects  without,  and  he  watched  their 
distorted  images  with  the  curious  interest  of  the 
irresponsible  self  in  trifles  when  we  are  most  in 
earnest. 

"  I  'm  going  back  to-night,"  he  said  abruptly, 
with  a  certain  dogged  resolution. 

"  To-night !  "  It  was  breath,  not  words,  that 
failed  her. 

"  You  can  telegraph  me  if  anything  happens." 
There  was  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  being  mis 
understood,  which  led  him  to  linger  over  these 
preliminaries. 

"  John !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  rising  from 
her  seat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  turning  and  looking  at  her, 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  279 

"  so  we  've  got  to  spell  this  all  out,  have  we." 
She  sank  back  again  into  her  chair  without  tak 
ing  her  eyes  from  his  face.  "  If  I  knew  I  could 
bring  her  back  by  going  into  that  room  and 
saying  '  Gladys,'  do  you  think  I  would  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  forgive  her." 

"  Forgive  her !"  Jack's  face  flushed.  "What's 
that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  You  make  her  forgive 
herself ;  it 's  easy  enough  to  forgive  other  people. 
I  would  n't  hesitate  to  ask  her  forgiveness  if  — 
if  I  had  stabbed  her  through  the  heart,  so  far 
as  getting  it  is  concerned ;  but  she  's  stabbed 
herself.  Forgive  her ! "  he  repeated,  going  to 
the  window  again  ;  "  we  've  all  driven  her  into  a 
corner." 

"  You  did  n't  expect  to  fool  Gladys,  did  you  ?  " 
he  pursued,  after  an  interval  of  silence.  "  It 's 
no  use  ;  we  can't  do  it.  She  will  read  you  like 
a  book  the  first  time  she  looks  into  your  eyes. 
She  would  know  by  the  sound  of  my  heel  on  the 
stairs.  I  've  thought  it  all  out,  and  I  know  I 
am  right.  Some  people  can  talk  things  out  of 
sight ;  wash  the  slate  clean  with  a  few  tears,  and 
begin  all  over  again.  Do  you  think  Gladys  is 
one  of  that  kind  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do ; 
she  's  got  too  much  conscience.  You  can't  rea 
son  with  it ;  it 's  made  for  self-torture.  I  say  I 
would  n't  wake  her  because  I  should  n't  dare 
to." 


280  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

He  went  to  the  door  softly,  as  if  he  were  in 
deed  afraid  of  waking  her,  but  came  back  to 
take  Aunt  Isabel's  hand.  "  Don't  you  be  afraid 
she  will  misjudge  me  ;  she  and  I  have  always 
understood  each  other.  She  '11  know  when  she 
wants  me  —  if  she  ever  does.  There  's  Mabel, 
you  know.  You  've  got  a  hard  time  before 
you."  He  pressed  the  trembling  fingers.  "  But 
we  're  not  thinking  of  ourselves.  Write  me  a 
line  every  day,  and  telegraph  me  if  ...  either 
way  "... 

As  he  went  out  he  paused  a  moment  at  Gla 
dys'  door,  then  descended  the  stairs  to  the 
library,  where  he  took  from  his  desk  a  bundle 
of  papers.  As  he  opened  his  cigar-drawer  a 
pair  of  old  gloves  met  his  eye.  They  were  torn 
and  soiled ;  he  remembered  to  have  seen  Gla 
dys  wearing  them  in  the  garden.  He  took  them 
up  mechanically;  notwithstanding  the  cigars, 
there  was  still  that  nameless  perfume  in  them 
which  belonged  to  all  her  things,  though  she 
detested  perfumes,  and  never  used  them.  He 
thrust  them  into  his  pocket,  closed  the  drawer, 
and  went  out  on  the  terrace.  The  autumn  night 
air  was  fresh  and  bracing,  and  a  burden  seemed 
lifted  from  his  shoulders. 

"  Rather  late  for  you  to  be  going  this  way, 
Mr.  Temple,"  said  the  conductor,  passing  through 
the  car  where  Jack,  wrapped  in  his  thick  coat, 


TEE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  281 

sat  alone  smoking.      Jack  nodded.     His  hand 
was  in  his  pocket,  closed  about  an  old  glove. 


XXXVII. 

"There,  my  child,  be  quiet,  and  rest,"  the 
voice  had  said. 

She  was  conscious  of  something,  something  of 
supreme  importance  behind  the  drowsy  sense  of 
indifference  which  weighed  down  every  effort. 
Something  momentous  had  transpired,  some 
great  organic  change,  such  as  warns  the  soul 
when  its  tenancy  is  about  to  expire,  and,  with 
shuddering  wings,  it  waits  for  flight.  A  vague 
remembrance  —  she  exerted  all  her  will  to  re 
call  it  —  but  little  by  little  a  langour  slowly 
overpowered  her;  the  soothing  tones  of  that 
voice,  repeating  themselves  in  endless  murmurs, 
at  last  sunk  to  an  inaudible  whisper,  and  she 
ceased  to  struggle. 

Suddenly  Gladys  opened  her  eyes. 

Motionless,  they  rested  on  the  lace  hangings 
falling  from  the  white  rosette  of  satin  over  the 
bed.  The  heavy  curtain  outside  had  been  drawn 
over  them,  and  the  light  from  the  window  glim 
mered  feebly  through  its  mesh  of  threads.  There 
were  its  woven  figures  she  knew  so  well,  —  birds 
in  a  screen  of  vines  and  leaves.  Some  one  had 


282  THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

drawn  the  curtain  closer,  so  as  to  intercept  the 
light,  and  Gladys  wondered.  Beyond,  out  of 
sight,  the  clock  ticked  steadily ;  it  must  be  on 
her  desk,  by  the  window ;  who  had  moved  it 
from  its  accustomed  place  ?  She  heard  the  fa 
miliar  click  of  the  wheels  which  preceded  the 
striking  of  the  hour,  —  one,  two  .  .  .  five.  She 
must  have  fallen  asleep  before  dinner.  No ! 
she  suddenly  recognized  that  she  had  on  her 
night-dress.  How  hot  it  was  !  She  essayed  to 
move  her  limbs  to  feel  the  cooling  touch  of  the 
sheets,  but  they  were  heavy  as  lead,  —  They 
must  be  asleep ! 

She  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  the  figures 
on  the  curtain  upon  which  they  had  first  opened. 
She  felt  no  inclination  to  turn  them  elsewhere, 
and  for  a  long  time  lay  immobile,  watching  the 
bird  looking  at  her  from  its  screen  of  embroid 
ered  leaves.  A  slight  noise  in  the  room  caused 
her  at  last  to  turn  her  head ;  a  woman,  whose 
back  was  towards  her,  sat  sewing  in  her  easy 
chair.  It  was  neither  Ellen,  nor  Margaret,  nor 
Aunt  Isabel.  Her  hair  was  cut  short,  escaping 
in  curls  from  the  ruffle  of  a  white  cap,  which 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  thick,  red  neck 
above  the  broad  shoulders.  Gladys  could  not 
see  her  face,  but  an  air  of  comfort  and  som 
nolence,  like  that  of  a  huge  cat  curled  up  be 
fore  the  fire,  pervaded  this  figure.  Something 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  283 

in  its  placidity  frightened  her.  Who  was  it  oc 
cupying  her  chair,  sitting  in  her  room?  She 
resolved  to  shut  her  eyes  and  pretend  she  was 
asleep.  As  she  closed  them,  the  drowsy  feeling 
of  lassitude  and  indifference  stole  over  her 
again,  like  a  mist.  Sounds,  as  of  organs  and 
distant  litanies  rose  and  fell  rhythmically,  and 
then  vanished  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  in  the 
wind.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open  again ;  there 
were  the  birds  among  the  leaves,  and  the  figure 
in  the  chair  as  before.  Suddenly  this  figure 
moved,  and  Gladys  closed  her  eyes  quickly,  as 
if  caught  in  a  fault.  A  soft  but  heavy  step  ap 
proached  the  bed,  and  she  felt  a  hand  on  hers. 
Then  the  steps  withdrew,  there  was  a  tinkle  of 
glasses  on  the  dressing-table,  and  the  closing  of 
a  door.  She  opened  her  eyes  eagerly  now,  and 
made  an  effort  to  raise  herself  on  her  elbow, 
falling  back  with  the  surprise  of  one  who  for 
the  first  time  finds  his  orders  disobeyed.  She 
looked  at  her  hand,  lying  outside  the  sheet ;  the 
fingers  were  long  and  thin,  but  seemed  of  enor 
mous  size,  and  heavy.  She  did  not  try  to 
account  for  this,  —  she  felt  inclined  to  laugh,  — 
when,  far  away,  the  whistle  of  a  train  came 
echoing  down  the  valley.  A  confused  rush  of 
thought  swept  over  her,  a  desperate  sense  of 
being  late.  Mabel  was  not  ready.  The  cars 
were  drawing  out  from  the  station  as  they  came 


284  TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

in  sight  of  them  round  the  last  curve  of  the 
road.  Jack  had  sailed.  She  could  see  the 
leaning  sail  of  the  Vixen  far  down  the  bay,  and 
then,  like  a  lightning  flash,  all  this  blur  of 
thought  cleared  away,  and  the  truth  burst  upon 
her  with  a  vividness  more  real  than  experience 
itself. 

XXXVIII. 

Aunt  Isabel  received  the  summons  to  Gladys* 
chamber  as  a  felon  hears  the  key  in  the  door  when 
the  fatal  hour  is  come.  How  many  times  she 
had  bent  over  the  bed,  holding  her  very  breath 
lest  those  blue  eyes  should  open ;  for  she  knew 
what  questionings  were  there,  and  what  a  world 
of  tragic  sadness  was  hidden  behind  the  sorrow 
ful  droop  of  their  lids.  And  now  she  gathered 
up  her  cards  and  went  to  the  glass.  What  a 
face  !  She  endeavored  to  smile,  to  rehearse  her 
part,  to  recall  the  words  she  had  selected  for  this 
very  hour  ..."  God  help  me,  what  can  I  say  !  " 
she  murmured. 

She  opened  the  door  softly,  stealing  to  the 
bedside  under  cover  of  the  curtain,  —  all  her 
plans  had  forsaken  her,  —  and  hid  her  face  in 
Gladys'  neck. 

"  She  knows,"  thought  Gladys,  lying  passive, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  white  rosette  above. 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  285 

"  Sh  .  .  .  sh  .  .  .  Laddie,"  whispered  the 
old  lady,  calling  her  by  an  almost  forgotten 
name  of  babyhood.  "  Sh,"  she  repeated,  "  you 
will  be  better  soon.  Do  not  talk  ;  let  me  talk  ; 
it  has  been  a  hard  fight  ;  let  us  thank  God 
it  is  no  worse,"  and  she  patted  the  shoulder 
where  her  face  lay.  The  hardest  part  was 
over  now,  the  plunge  at  all  events  was  taken, 
and  she  raised  her  head  and  kissed  the  pale 
lips. 

"  Worse  than  what  ?  "  said  Gladys. 

"  Hush,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Isabel,  soothingly, 
"  try  to  be  quiet.  To  -  morrow  you  will  be 
stronger.  The  doctor  has  left  me  the  most  pos 
itive  orders." 

"  Stay  here  —  I  am  strong." 

The  red  face  of  the  nurse  appeared  at  the 
bedside,  reinforcing  Aunt  Isabel's  last  remark. 
"  Come,  now,  be  reasonable,  that 's  a  dear  ;  to 
morrow  at  this  time  you  '11  be  bright  as  a 
cricket." 

The  strong,  cheery  voice,  with  its  intrusive 
familiarity,  jarred  upon  Gladys. 

"  Send  her  away,"  she  whispered,  pressing 
Aunt  Isabel's  hand. 

The  latter  hesitated,  then  made  a  sign  to  the 
nurse,  who  withdrew,  shaking  her  head.  "I 
will  stay  five  minutes  by  the  clock,"  she  said, 
"  if  you  will  promise  me  "  — 


286  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

Gladys  closed  her  eyes  in  acquiescence,  then 
fixed  them  upon  her  with  a  steady  gaze  of  inter 
rogation.  Was  Jack  right  —  was  it  better  to 
hold  nothing  back  ? 

"  How  came  I  here  ?  " 

"  Sh !  remember  your  promise ;  you  were 
sick  that  night,  out  of  your  head  ...  I  know, 
I  know  ...  I  will  keep  nothing  from  you ; 
but  you  must  look  at  things  as  they  are.  I  have 
been  mad  myself  .  .  .  what  does  it  matter  — 
wine  goes  to  every  head."  She  could  not  get 
back  to  the  facts  while  those  eyes  were  upon 
her,  and  wandered  off  into  the  excuses  she  had 
devised.  "Do  you  remember  the  donkeys  at 
Lucca,  with  their  paniers  ?  We  are  all  nothing 
but  donkeys  —  a  feather's  weight  in  excess  on 
either  side  and  we  lose  our  balance.  Do  you 
think  we  are  all  harpies  waiting  to  pounce  upon 
you?"  and  she  took  the  unresisting  hands  in 
hers.  "  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way,  Gladys  ; 
I  will  tell  you  everything  —  dear  me  !  If  you 
only  knew  how  many  times  I  have  fallen  down 
to  get  up  again." 

"  He  brought  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  what  else  could  he  do  ?  They  are 
all  going  away  —  we  shall  have  peace  again,  a 
quiet  time,  you  and  I.  Ellen  undressed  you, 
here  —  she 's  a  good  girl  —  and  thought  to  keep 
it  all  from  me  ...  just  as  if "  —  And  Aunt 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  287 

Isabel's  fingers  smoothed  back  gently  the  un- 
brushed  hair. 

"  She  knows,  too,"  thought  Gladys.  "  Keep 
back  what  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Now  listen,"  —  and  Aunt  Isabel  assumed  an 
air  of  authority,  —  "  between  love  and  anxiety 
I  shall  lose  my  patience.  Give  yourself  into  our 
hands  ;  the  past  is  gone  and  cannot  be  helped ; 
let  it  be  as  bad  as  you  please  —  it  is  not  so  — 
all  the  torture  is  in  your  own  heart  —  forget  it. 
.  .  .  No,  dear,  you  cannot  .  .  .  now ;  but  think 
of  us  —  see  me  here  with  my  arms  around  you 
—  and  Jack  —  not  now,  but  by-and-by ;  you 
know  each  other.  What  are  we  good  for  if  not 
to  lean  on  ?  Open  your  heart  to  us  —  cry  — 
but  creep  back  into  the  sun.  Do  you  know  why 
I  am  .  .  .  what  I  am  ?  because  once  I  hardened 
my  heart,  instead  of  "  —  Her  voice  trembled. 
"  There,  I  am  going,  you  shall  rest ;  and  we  shall 
wait  for  you  to  call  us  back ;  you  have  no  right 
to  keep  us  out  of  your  arms.  Come,  dear,  begin 
now  ;  give  me  a  kiss,"  and  as  the  old  lady  rose 
she  leaned  over  Gladys'  fixed  eyes  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  the  pale  lips.  "  I  shall  come  back 
soon,  and  we  will  have  a  talk  as  we  used  to  when 
I  put  Laddie  to  bed." 

"  If  he  were  only  here  now  !  "  she  said  to  her 
self  as  she  went  to  her  room,  "men  never  do 
understand,"  and  she  resolved  to  telegraph  for 
Jack  at  once. 


288  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

The  nurse,  reentering  the  room,  approached 
the  bed  softly  and  listened  for  a  moment  — 
Gladys'  face  was  turned  to  the  wall.  "  She  is 
asleep,"  she  thought,  and  drawing  the  curtain 
closer  to  shut  out  the  light  of  the  low  sun,  she 
stole  on  tip-toe  from  the  chamber  to  take  her 
afternoon  cup  of  fresh  air. 

"  The  past  is  gone  and  cannot  be  helped."  The 
words  repeated  themselves  again  and  again  in 
Gladys'  ears.  The  web  was  spun,  the  master- 
thread  had  escaped  from  her  hand.  How  it  had 
slipped,  like  sand,  through  her  fingers.  "  Sick 
—  mad  .  .  .  wine  goes  to  every  head,"  Aunt 
Isabel  had  said.  Oh,  the  thief  that  had  stolen 
in  with  the  wine !  Mad  or  weak,  fated  or  un- 
compelled,  it  mattered  not  now;  the  web  was 
spun. 

Jack  was  there,  waiting  for  her  to  call.  How 
could  she  call,  she  who  was  dead?  A  terrible, 
oppressive  weight  lay  across  her  heart,  —  the 
weight  of  her  dead  self.  She  could  see  it  lying 
there,  shrouded  and  still.  Jack  was  kind  —  so 
kind  I  Nothing  could  change  him  for  her.  "  You 
cannot  change  for  him,"  somebody  seemed  to 
whisper  to  her  ;  and  she  repeated  the  words  over 
and  over,  holding  fast  to  them,  as  to  a  strong 
hand.  If  she  could  but  struggle  from  under  that 
dead  self  and  creep  back  to  the  sun !  Surely, 


THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY.  289 

she  loved  Jack.  "  But  love,  without  self-respect," 
said  another  voice  ;  "  is  love  a  thing  to  run  into 
every  mould  of  circumstance  and  mood ;  to 
change  as  we  change?"  She  turned  her  face 
wearily  to  the  wall.  She  could  not  reason. 
Now  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  played  with  mighty 
forces ;  now  that  they  had  played  with  her. 
Self-respect !  Oh,  the  thief  that  had  stolen  in 
with  the  wine  !  She  could  track  him  now  through 
all  the  vacillating  shadows  of  indecision,  when 
reason  counseled  and  waited,  and  passion  coun 
seled  and  impelled,  —  more  persuasive  than 
reason;  for  what  passion  counsels  it  can  do. 
Absorbed  and  bewildered,  she  listened  to  these 
voices  questioning  and  answering  each  other. 
"  Ellen,  Aunt  Isabel,  Jack,  Rowan,  and,  if 
Rowan,  then  Seraphine,"  said  one,  "  they  look 
into  your  heart ;  it  is  bare,  and  they  know." 
"  And  I,  also,"  she  said  to  herself,  closing  her 
eyes.  Suddenly  the  words  Schonberg  had  been 
reading  came  back  to  her.  No,  she  did  not  re 
member  them.  Some  one  spoke  them  distinctly 
in  her  ear  :  — 

"  Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  Dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  air  of  heaven  ride,"  — 

She  opened  her  eyes.  No  one  was  there.  Her 
hand  lay  outside  the  clothes  ,•  where  were  its 
rings  ? 

"  And  naked  on  the  air  of  heaven  ride,"  — 


290  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

repeated  the  voice.  The  weight  at  her  heart 
seemed  to  stir  and  tremble  with  life.  What  was 
life  ?  the  vapor,  the  dream,  — 

"  Were  't  not  a  shame,  were  't  not  a  shame,  for  him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide  ?  " 

said  the  voice  again.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and 
looked  about  her.  Her  head  was  no  longer 
heavy ;  strength  ran  in  her  veins.  The  chamber 
was  still  and  dark,  but  she  could  see.  As  she 
touched  the  floor  with  her  feet,  she  noticed  they 
had  put  on  her  knitted  slippers.  She  crossed 
the  chamber  quickly,  opened  the  door,  and  glided 
down  the  stairs.  Sounds  from  the  rear  of  the 
house  filled  her  with  terror ;  a  moment,  and  they 
would  follow  her,  shackle  the  wings  that  trem 
bled  with  the  joy  of  flight ;  the  door  on  the  ter 
race  closed  behind  her  —  safe !  She  was  free  ! 
How  fleet  and  light  her  feet  were  ;  the  pack 
could  not  overtake  her  now.  The  trees  envied 
her,  shivering  in  all  their  leaves,  crying  free ! 
free !  The  grasses  under  her  feet  whispered  to 
each  other  :  she  is  free !  she  is  free !  Far  away, 
a  star  leaped  out  of  the  void  with  a  flaming 
torch,  crying  free !  and  at  the  river  brink,  deep 
in  the  black  flood,  she  saw  it  again  for  an  instant, 
burning  like  a  light  from  an  open  door. 

She  had  the  titne  to  cry,  to  see  Mabel's  face, 
to  struggle  with  those  ponderous  doors  which 
closed  upon  her,  to  know  it  was  vain ;  and  the 


THE    WIND   OF  DESTINY.  291 

heart  which  had  throbbed  with  all  He  has  made 
for  its  joy  and  its  sorrow  beat  for  a  moment 
boisterously ;  then,  like  the  ripple  on  the  shore, 
grew  fainter,  fluttered,  and  was  still. 


292  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 


XXXIX. 

On  the  beach  at  Scheveningen,  people  were 
beginning  to  abandon  their  chairs  reluctantly 
for  dinner.  From  the  promenade  above,  these 
chairs,  whose  high,  curved  backs  concealed  their 
occupants,  presented  a  gregarious  aspect,  like 
so  many  hooded  gossips,  chatting  together  upon 
serious  and  important  matters. 

The  sun  was  entering  the  low,  hazy  band  on 
the  sea-horizon,  an  opal  mist,  scarcely  distinguish 
able  from  the  sea  itself,  so  closely  did  the  shreds 
of  vapor  torn  from  its  upper  edge  resemble  the 
white  curl  of  the  waves  below ;  one  would  say  a 
strip  of  smooth  water  lying  between  the  wind 
currents  and  trembling  with  unsteady  scintilla 
tions.  Sinking  into  this  curtain,  the  sun  seemed 
an  enormous  blur  of  light. 

Down  among  the  throng  of  idlers,  busy  only 
with  each  other,  the  beach  appeared  made  ex 
pressly  for  their  benefit ;  the  sea  to  be  a  tamed 
monster,  murmuring  supplicatingly  at  their  feet ; 
and  the  sun  to  have  chosen  this  hour,  when  the 
crowd  was  greatest,  to  make  his  exit  with  all  pos 
sible  magnificence.  But  beyond,  on  the  deserted 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  293 

shore,  nature  regained  her  majesty ;  and  on  pass 
ing  the  last  chair  of  this  throng,  its  importance 
was  gradually  swallowed  up  in  the  silence  of  the 
sea  and  the  dune  stretching  into  the  haze  where 
all  boundaries  were  lost  in  mystery. 

"Madelon,"  said  Elize,  "call  Alexis;  it  is 
time  to  go  in." 

In  the  deep  chair,  behind  the  parasol  secured 
in  front,  scarcely  anything  was  visible  of  Elize 
but  a  pair  of  small  feet  and  a  lap  in  which  were 
the  children's  stockings.  This  parasol  had  been 
arranged  so  as  to  form  a  loophole  for  observa 
tion,  through  which  she  could  watch  the  children, 
and  survey  also  the  stream  of  promenaders  pass 
ing  between  her  and  the  advancing  tide.  Near 
by  was  a  group  which  especially  interested  her. 
Its  principal  personage,  a  young  mother  like  her 
self,  was  lying  at  full  length  in  a  large  hollow, 
whose  digging  had  cost  the  children  infinite 
labor,  her  dress  and  feet  buried  in  the  sand. 
The  elegance  of  this  morning  dress  and  the  con 
duct  of  these  children  had  furnished  Elize  the 
opportunity  for  some  very  natural  comparisons, 
and  materially  retarded  her  progress  in  the  book 
and  letter  lying  on  the  little  shelf  in  her  chair. 

Madelon,  her  dress  looped  back  above  her 
bare  brown  legs,  ran  out  to  her  brother,  who 
with  a  half  dozen  other  boys  was  engaged  in 
engineering  operations,  dykes,  canals,  and  forti- 


294  THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

fications,  successively  abandoned  to  the  incom 
ing  tide.  Elize  had  not  watched  these  insignifi 
cant  operations  without  discovering  indications 
of  skill  and  daring  which  flattered  her  pride. 
Certainly  of  all  the  bare  legs  running  over  the 
sand  or  wading  in  the  shallow  water  none  were 
so  strong  or  beautiful  as  those  of  Alexis,  nor 
could  she  find  any  little  girl  so  winsome  or  so 
appropriately  dressed  as  Madelon.  She  was  per 
fectly  well  aware,  too,  that  her  neighbor,  though 
apparently  oblivious  of  her  presence,  shared  to 
some  extent  these  opinions.  In  fact  it  was  very 
evident  to  any  one  who  watched  Elize,  as  she 
brushed  the  sand  from  the  children's  feet  and 
assisted  them  into  their  stockings  and  shoes,  that 
her  heart  was  full  of  sweet  and  innocent  satis 
faction. 

Having  gathered  together  the  various  impedi 
menta,  —  pails,  shovels,  and  wraps,  her  book  and 
writing  materials,  —  she  threaded  her  way  among 
the  chairs  towards  the  steps  leading  up  to  the 
promenade  before  the  hotels.  At  the  top  she 
waited  for  Madelon,  whose  short  legs  made  two 
stairs  of  one.  A  few  bathing  wagons  were  still 
out  in  the  white  line  of  breakers ;  the  fishing 
boats,  like  a  flock  of  birds  which  gather  on  a 
tree,  were  approaching  the  anchorage  near  the 
lighthouse,  whose  steady  beam,  caught  by  the 
uneasy  sea,  was  broken  and  lost  in  the  shimmer 
of  its  lights  and  shadows. 


THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY.  295 

"  Come,"  said  Elize,  "  try  to  hurry." 

She  had  been  endeavoring  to  write  Seraphine, 
but  amid  the  perpetual  motion  which  everywhere 
solicited  the  eye,  had  scarcely  finished  the  first 
page.  A  scrap  of  conversation  behind  her  chair, 
a  bathing  wagon  rumbling  over  the  sand,  the 
venders  of  fruit,  milk,  and  flowers,  above  all  the 
silken  lustre  of  the  sea,  rendered  all  consecutive 
effort  impossible.  "  I  will  simply  tell  her,"  she 
thought,  waiting  for  Madelon,  "  that  if  I  do  not 
write,  it  is  because  I  cannot ;  it  is  too  beautiful." 

On  reaching  the  hotel,  Elize  found  the  letters 
which  were  the  cause  of  her  haste.  One,  from 
her  husband,  she  laid  aside,  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  carrying  it  in  her  pocket  till  she  could  no 
longer  restrain  the  desire  to  open  it ;  the  other, 
from  Seraphine  at  Dinant,  she  read  at  once. 

"  He  will  not  admit  that  he  is  not  as  well  as 
usual,  but  it  is  now  a  month  since  he  has  walked 
farther  than  the  great  oak  in  the  garden  ;  this 
irritates  him.  Yesterday  an  eagle  sailed  in  great 
circles  above  the  Lesse  for  hours.  '  Look  at  him,' 
said  he ;  '  how  he  dallies  with  the  wind.'  It  was 
the  cry  of  a  spirit  for  liberty." 

Elize  did  not  hesitate.  It  was  not  so  much 
the  desire  to  be  with  Schonberg  in  his  last  hours, 
but  the  courageous  impulse  of  her  heart  to  fly 
at  once  to  his  side,  and  battle  with  her  frail 
hands  against  the  enemy.  She  determined  to 


296  THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

take  the  children  with  her,  and  passed  the  even 
ing  in  preparations  for  the  journey,  finding  time 
also  to  telegraph  a  certain  staff-officer  in  Brus 
sels  — "  that  young  man  whom  you  call  your 
husband,"  as  Schouberg  designated  him — to 
meet  them  on  their  passage  through  the  city. 
As  he  was  unable  to  absent  himself  from  his  du 
ties  at  that  time,  Elize  only  asked  that  he  should 
accompany  them  as  far  as  Namur,  and  in  the 
happiness  of  this  brief  reunion  almost  forgot  the 
object  of  her  journey. 

This  happiness  was  sometimes  so  great  as  to 
reproach  her.  There  had  been  a  time  —  how  far 
away  it  now  appeared  —  when,  notwithstanding 
the  new  horizons  opened  by  the  anticipation  of 
returning  to  Dinant,  the  current  of  life  seemed 
to  have  passed  her  by.  Now  all  was  changed, 
and  she  looked  from  Madelon  and  Alexis  to  her 
husband,  after  the  first  excitement  of  meeting 
was  over,  with  the  terror  of  the  heart  that  is  full, 
—  the  full  cup  whose  contents  tremble  on  the 
point  of  overflowing.  How  like  his  father  Alexis 
was!  The  current  had  caught  her  up  on  its 
shining  tide  and  thrown  Seraphine  aside. 

"  I  wish  you  would  love  Seraphiue  more,"  said 
Elize,  taking  her  husband's  hand. 

"  But  I  love  her  very  much,"  he  replied. 

Then  Elize  began  to  imagine  herself  in  her 
sister's  place.  What  would  become  of  her  if 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  297 

she  should  lose  Alexis  ?  could  common  love  con 
sole  her?  for  as  to  that  which  existed  between 
herself  and  Alexis  there  was  nothing  like  it  in 
the  world.  Once,  after  the  terrible  event  which 
preceded  their  departure  from  Ashurst,  it  had 
seemed  to  her  only  natural  that  Seraphine  should 
recoil  from  the  very  thought  of  marrying  Rowan. 
What  had  he  done?  Nothing.  But  it  was  so 
terrible.  Now,  to  the  wife,  this  revulsion  was 
almost  incomprehensible ;  and,  pressing  the  hand 
in  hers  to  assure  herself  it  was  there,  she  thought, 
"  Nothing  could  separate  us."  She  remembered 
that  hour  when  Rowan  came,  after  Gladys  had 
been  found,  —  could  she  ever  forget  it?  She 
could  see  Seraphine  now,  endeavoring  to  smile 
in  order  not  to  afflict  him,  —  the  smile  of  love, 
love  not  even  wounded,  but  fettered,  bewildered, 
imploring  forbearance,  a  little  time  to  cry  alone, 
to  accustom  itself  to  reality. 

She  had  promised  Rowan  to  write  him.  Had 
he  lost  courage  ?  He  had  only  to  wait.  Was 
the  fault  hers  ?  This  thought  often  tortured  her, 
—  all  the  more  because  no  one  could  impute 
blame  to  her.  She  had  almost  resolved,  a  month 
after  their  return  to  Dinant,  to  summon  him  of 
her  own  accord.  Why  had  she  delayed  ?  Sera 
phine  would  have  forgiven  her  ;  for  later,  when 
joy  gave  her  courage,  and  she  confessed  her  own 
happiness,  she  had  spoken  of  Rowan,  and  Sera- 


298  THE    WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

phine  had  kissed  her  and  written  that  very  day. 
The  memory  of  their  walk  together  to  Diiiant 
with  that  letter  brought  a  little  sob  of  repining 
to  her  throat.  Oh,  if  she  had  but  followed  the 
first  impulse  of  her  heart,  before  it  was  too  late ! 
For  when  her  hand,  trembling  with  eagerness 
which  could  not  wait,  pushed  that  letter  through 
the  narrow  grating,  there  was  no  one  to  claim 
it  but  the  dead  man  lying  with  his  face  to  the 
stars  on  the  field  of  Manassas. 

What  had  given  her  the  hand  she  held,  her 
children  ?  thought  Elize.  If  she  had  not  dropped 
her  bracelet  in  the  Alle'e  of  the  park  at  Brussels, 
she  and  Alexis  would  never  have  seen  each  other. 
Think  of  it !  —  a  wide  world  of  happiness,  and 
she  might  have  passed  its  narrow  door  without 
entering.  What  had  she  done  to  deserve  it? 
What  had  Seraphine  done  that  a  bullet  fired 
at  random  in  a  swamp  four  thousand  miles  away 
should  find  her  heart,  just  daring  to  beat  again  ? 

"  You  have  not  said  a  word  this  last  half 
hour,"  said  Alexis,  as  the  train  approached  Na- 
mur.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  Of  you,"  replied  Elize. 

After  leaving  Namur  there  was  little  op 
portunity  for  further  reflection.  The  children 
began  to  feel  already  the  relaxation  of  Elize's  au 
thority,  —  an  authority  which  at  Walzins  disap 
peared  altogether  in  the  gentle  acquiescence  of 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  299 

Seraphine.  As  for  Schonberg,  at  the  most  he 
was  only  their  equal. 

"  I  see  it,  mamma,  mamma  !  "  cried  Alexis  ; 
"it  is  Dinant." 

But  there  were  yet  two  stations. 

At  last  the  citadel  came  in  sight,  above  the 
white  houses  huddled  together  in  its  shadow  at 
the  foot  of  the  rock,  as  if  for  protection. 

"  Do  you  think  Aunt  Seraphine  will  meet  us, 
mamma  ?  "  asked  Alexis,  who  had  his  pockets 
full  of  shells  destined  for  her. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Elize,  endeavoring  to  look 
out  the  window  and  at  the  same  time  to  put  on 
the  capote  of  Madelon,  who  danced  at  the  mere 
sound  of  Seraphine's  name.  "  How  can  I  do 
anything  while  you  dance  so  ? "  and  Madelon, 
shutting  fast  her  little  fists,  trembled  like  a 
horse  that  is  being  saddled. 

The  train  had  scarcely  stopped  before  Made- 
Ion's  curly  head  was  buried  in  Seraphine's  dress, 
and  her  little  arms  had  fastened  about  her  neck 
as  she  stooped  to  kiss  Alexis. 

"  One  would  think  you  were  the  mother,"  said 
Elize,  smiling  with  pleasure  as  she  advanced. 

But  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  which  was  the 
mother.  A  radiance  as  from  a  light  burning 
within  illuminated  the  face  of  Elize ;  all  there 
was  complete,  every  promise  realized.  Seraphine 
was  older,  but  the  inexpressible  charm  of  the 


300  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

young  girl  lingered  in  every  feature,  the  beauty 
of  a  promise  yet  unfulfilled ;  delayed,  but  not 
abandoned. 

As  Seraphine  had  written,  Scbonberg  had  not 
of  late  been  able  to  go  beyond  the  oak  tree  in 
the  garden.  Their  long  walks  had  become  less 
and  less  frequent,  and  finally  had  ceased  alto 
gether.  He  had  revisited  the  old  chapel  above 
Anseremne  but  once,  soon  after  their  return. 
Women  were  beating  their  clothes  on  the  river 
stones,  and  workmen  from  the  quarries  which 
scarred  the  wooded  hills  were  loading  barges  at 
the  quay  as  he  approached  the  village  ;  but  a 
new  priest  walked  its  street.  Father  Pierre  had 
crossed  himself  for  the  last  time,  and  was  asleep. 
As  Schonberg  climbed  the  hill  to  the  cemetery 
on  its  slope,  he  saw  the  wall  had  disappeared  to 
make  room  for  the  silent  company  gathering 
there  faster  than  in  the  village  below.  He  passed 
through  this  added  space,  already  thick  with 
graves, — one  newly  made,  covered  with  green 
branches  and  flowers,  a  screen  of  perishing 
beauty  above  the  narrow  door  whither  all  foot 
steps  lead  and  none  return.  Beyond,  the  rust 
and  frost  had  done  their  work.  Where  was  the 
little  mound  in  the  corner  beside  which  he  had 
knelt  with  Father  Pierre  ?  He  could  not  find  it. 
The  old  footpaths  had  disappeared,  the  shrub 
bery  had  grown  bold  with  neglect,  the  trees 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  301 

were  larger  and  covered  the  entire  spot  with 
their  thick  shade.  He  turned  bewildered  to  the 
old  chapel ;  but  there,  too,  all  was  changed.  The 
doors  of  the  main  entrance  were  open,  and  the 
light  entered  freely  through  the  renovated  win 
dows.  A  screen  protected  the  carvings,  newly 
restored,  over  the  portal  from  the  nesting  birds. 
A  new  Christ  hung  above  the  altar ;  the  black 
stalls  were  gone,  and  the  eye  wandered  over  the 
whitewashed  walls  without  finding  a  spot  on 
which  to  rest.  But  walking  down  the  aisle  his 
eye  caught  the  rude  outlines  on  the  stone  under 
his  feet,  —  a  man  and  a  woman,  side  by  side, 
with  their  hands  folded  over  their  breasts,  —  and 
at  that  instant  all  returned :  the  dust,  the  cob 
webs,  and  the  gloom.  Here  was  the  wooden 
frame  of  the  gravedigger ;  the  spade  leaning 
against  the  pulpit  rail.  Here  she  had  sprung 
with  a  cry  to  his  arms.  She  was  not  dead,  nor 
he  an  old  man ;  only  the  pain  and  the  waiting 
were  old.  But  it  was  over  now,  and  under  his 
white  moustache  he  repeated  softly,  "Noel, 
Noel,"  answering  the  sob  on  his  breast. 

A  peasant  woman  came  in,  and,  without  heed 
ing  him,  went  to  the  altar  and  knelt,  looking  up 
in  her  prayers  to  the  cross,  —  it  was  there  the 
bier  had  stood,  —  and,  listening  to  this  old  wo 
man,  whose  remnant  of  life  was  hastening  to 
consume  itself,  mumbling  on  her  knees,  he,  too, 


302  THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

lifted  his  eyes  to  the  figure  above.  What  had 
he  learned  since  those  days,  which  he  now  sa 
luted  for  the  last  time,  but  to  cry  with  Noel, 
who  had  taken  refuge  there,  Sanctuary !  Sanc 
tuary! 

Having  finished  her  prayers,  the  old  woman 
rose,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  came  down 
the  aisle.  Her  hard,  brown  skin  was  creased 
with  lines,  but  deep  down  beneath  the  apathy 
of  her  eyes  a  light  shone,  like  a  star  in  the  river. 
The  masks  avail  nothing,  thought  he,  whether 
of  fine  contempt,  of  sodden  care,  or  holy  res 
ignation.  Tear  them  away,  lay  the  ear  to  the 
breast,  and  listen  ;  you  will  hear  the  beat  of  the 
immortal  heart,  the  murmur  of  her  hopes  that 
still  climb  the  celestial  stairs,  the  tumult  of  her 
legions  that  life  has  not  conquered,  and  that  she 
will  hurl  in  the  face  of  Death  even,  when  he 
comes. 

From  the  chapel  he  returned  to  Anseremne, 
by  the  path  through  the  birches.  There  were 
new  buildings  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the  vil 
lage  street,  a  new  hotel,  with  a  garden  and  grav 
eled  walks,  through  which  he  passed  to  the 
water's  edge.  Was  it  not  here  that  she  moored 
her  boat  ?  He  could  not  tell.  Only  the  river 
was  the  same  ;  shimmering  over  the  gravel  beds, 
sleeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs,  leaping  with 
laughter  under  the  black  arch  of  the  bridge. 


THE   WIND   OF  DESTINY.  303 

This  visit  was  his  last.  Often,  in  thought,  he 
had  revisited  this  spot,  when  its  memory,  like 
the  murmur  of  a  spring  lost  in  the  woods,  had 
haunted  his  thirsty  heart.  And  he  experienced 
now  that  afterglow  of  happiness  and  pain  which 
lingers  in  places  sanctified  once  by  their  pres 
ence.  But  thither  he  returned  no  more ;  the 
springs  were  no  longer  here.  And  as  if  this 
visit  had  deprived  him  of  somewhat  that  peo 
pled  his  solitude,  he  clung  more  and  more  to 
the  society  of  Seraphine. 

For  some  time  she  had  been  concerned  for  his 
health,  but  such  was  his  aversion  to  this  subject 
that  only  after  anxiety  had  grown  to  alarm  did 
she  ask  his  consent  to  call  the  physician  from 
Dinant.  He  acquiesced  readily,  evidently  to 
gratify  her,  submitting  wearily  to  the  examina 
tion,  and  indifferent  to  its  result. 

"  Any  one  who  takes  the  trouble  to  think  how 
he  happened  to  come  into  this  world,"  he  said 
to  the  doctor,  who  stumbled  over  his  finding, 
"  perceives  that  he  cannot  be  a  necessary  being, 
and  becomes  reconciled  to  going  out  of  it." 

It  was  at  this  time  Seraphine  wrote  to  Elize. 
She  knew  the  latter  would  come  at  once.  How 
tell  him  without  also  telling  him  why?  The 
night  before  Elize's  arrival  she  went  to  his  room. 
As  he  opened  the  door,  his  quill  in  his  hand,  the 
memory  of  another  night  rushed  over  her,  when 


304  TEE   WIND  OF  DESTINY. 

she  stood  at  his  door  in  Ashurst,  too  full  of  hap 
piness  to  keep  its  light  from  her  eyes,  and  its 
confession  from  her  lips. 

He  was  embarrassed  at  seeing  her,  and  she 
hesitated. 

"  I  have  some  good  news,"  she  said,  endeavor 
ing  to  smile.  "  Elize  is  coming  to-morrow." 

"What,  the  little  mother?"  said  he,  with 
affected  surprise. 

"  I  disturb  you  ?  "  she  asked,  sharing  his  em 
barrassment. 

"  As  if  that  were  possible,"  he  replied,  kissing 
her  cheek. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  Elize  with  us.  She 
is  so  happy." 

"  Yes,  the  happy  people  are  the  best,"  said 
he  ;  "  they  warm  like  the  sun." 

"  But  we  are  happy,  too ; "  and  she  took  his 
hand  gently. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  "  the  coming  of  the  first  tooth  of  Alexis' 
gave  me  more  happiness  than  all  I  have  ex 
tracted  from  philosophy.  It  was  only  a  drop, 
but  it  was  pure." 

Seraphine  smiled,  but  the  constraint  she  felt 
oppressed  her.  What  she  really  wished  to  do 
was  to  throw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  to  face 
the  presence  they  feigned  not  to  see,  to  say,  "  Do 
not  leave  me,  or,  if  you  go,  take  me  also." 


THE   WIND  OF  DESTINY.  305 

"  Do  not  work  any  more  to-night,"  she  said 
aloud.  "  Let  me  read  to  you." 

He  cast  an  undecided  look  about  the  room, 
but,  without  giving  him  the  time  to  reply,  she 
went  out  hurriedly.  They  read  together  often 
at  night,  and  when  she  returned  he  was  in  bed, 
behind  the  curtains  of  the  alcove.  The  book 
she  brought  was  not  the  one  they  were  finishing. 
She  had  seen  it  on  her  table,  beside  her  book  of 
devotions,  but  when  she  came  back  it  was  the 
latter  she  held  in  her  hand.  Her  fingers  trem 
bled  as  she  opened  it.  What  would  he  say? 
Then,  without  stopping  to  reflect,  she  began 
to  read.  In  the  pauses  she  listened ;  he  did 
not  move.  The  trouble  disappeared  from  her 
voice  as  she  read  on,  and,  having  finished,  she 
went  to  the  window  to  lower  the  shade.  He 
seemed  asleep. 

"  Seraphine,"  he  said,  from  behind  the  cur 
tain. 

"  Uncle,"  she  whispered. 

"  I  look  often  at  night  from  my  window.  A 
cloud  floats  motionless  on  the  deep  blue.  The 
hills,  immovable,  project  their  shadows  over  the 
plain."  She  saw  them  as  she  listened.  "  Noth 
ing  breaks  the  silence  but  the  drip  of  the  water 
on  the  wheel  in  the  sluice,  and  the  solitary  cry 
of  a  night-bird.  Yet  all  is  motion.  That 
steady  star-beam  is  a  quivering  dart,  and  the 


306  THE  WIND   OF  DESTINY. 

star  a  stormy  host  of  atoms.  It  is  they  that 
bring  the  note  of  the  bird,  the  image  of  the 
cloud.  Hark!  how  they  beat  against  the  iron 
throat  of  the  engine  down  the  valley.  The 
scream  of  its  whistle  is  their  song,  and  its 
strength  their  fiery  dance.  All  we  think  and 
feel  is  but  this  world  of  movement,  of  mass  and 
atom  unable  to  control  their  own  motions, 
and  steeped  in  a  sea  so  tremulously  responsive 
that  your  faintest  breath  breaks  on  infinite 
shores.  You  do  not  dare  to  move  ?  "  She  heard 
him  sit  up  in  bed.  "You  cannot  help  it! 
Nothing  moves  of  itself  since  the  dance  began ; 
nothing  swerves  but  by  collision.  Others  thou 
shalt  drive,  and  they  thee  ;  but  thyself  never. 
I,  myself,  capable  for  an  instant  of  unifying  the 
past  and  the  present,  am  but  one  of  these  atoms, 
swept  on  by  its  own  inertia,  and  disappearing 
as  it  came,  a  portent  and  a  wonder.  Do  you 
know  what  effect  all  this  produces  upon  me  ? 
To  create  a  faith  so  necessary  in  a  Being  so 
transcendent,  that  the  inventions  of  men  be 
come  puerilities.  Come,  little  girl,"  said  he, 
lying  down  again,  "  let  us  go  to  sleep." 

"  He  is  much  better  to-day,"  said  Seraphine, 
in  answer  to  Elize's  inquiries,  as  they  rode  back 
from  the  station.  "  I  left  him  in  the  garden, 
and  he  told  me  to  tell  you  he  had  put  on  his 
best  coat." 


THE  WIND  OF  DESTINY.  307 

"  Does  grandpapa  love  shells  ?  "  asked  Alexis, 
who  foresaw  the  possibility  of  enjoying  the  giv 
ing  of  his  treasures  a  second  time. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  great  door, 
and  the  children,  impatient,  ran  towards  the 
garden. 

"  Alexis !  Alexis !  "  cried  Elize,  "  let  Made- 
Ion  go  first." 

He  took  Seraphine's  hand,  envying  Madelon, 
who  ran  ahead  down  the  walk,  with  such  speed 
that  Elize  held  her  breath. 

As  the  child  turned  the  corner,  she  saw  Schon- 
berg  in  his  chair.  He  had  moved  it  into  the 
sun,  whose  light  fell  upon  his  white  head,  bent 
forward  on  his  breast.  "  He  is  asleep,"  thought 
Madelon,  running  over  the  grass.  Softly,  from 
behind,  scarcely  able  to  repress  her  glee,  she 
advanced  on  tiptoe,  and  touched  his  arm.  He 
did  not  move.  She  laid  a  round,  dimpled  hand 
in  his,  and  looked  up  wonderingly  into  his  face. 
She  was  not  afraid.  But,  for  the  first  time,  he 
did  not  take  her  in  his  arms,  nor  kiss  her  cheek, 
nor  smile.  It  was  only  by  the  absence  of  these 
tokens  that  the  child  knew  Death. 


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